Restaurants are funny places. Soon-to-be lovers are on a date—their wine-lubricated
laughter fills the room. Only a table away, a marriage of thirty-two years formally ends,
the papers audibly scratched by a green-and-gold fountain pen; she says, “I’ll still love
you. You know that, right?” He replies, “Yes, I know. Me too.” As food gets sheared,
forks and knives scrape ceramic plates. Pint glasses clink for a colleague’s toast. Bussers
clear tables; dirtied plates clash randomly on chromed trays. The purest sound:
shattered glass reverberates silence into the dimly-lit room.
For just the briefest moment, the restaurant is still: the lovers’ conversation halts, the
divorce papers sit still, plates now safe from the onslaught of silverware. A young busser
looks down at crystal fragments on the walnut floor. Then, the noise starts up again.
Lives come together and fall apart: what a strange place.