Gemotions

The upscale restaurant, a place usually filled with cheerful chatter, felt like a silent theater of despair. The clink of silverware, the polite conversations around them, all were a symphony of torment. Mark watched the other woman, a stylishly dressed stranger, as she delicately picked at her salad. *He* had “urgent business.” Mark wanted to throw the water pitcher at the wall.

He knew what the woman across from him was thinking. He felt the same way. The shared sense of betrayal was a tangible presence, heavy in the air. His jaw clenched. He wanted to shout, to expose the lie, to shatter the pleasant illusion.

His fingers drummed a furious tattoo against the table. "So, how *long*?" he finally asked, his voice tight and accusatory. He needed to know, needed to quantify the depth of the deception.