We ate in silence that wasn't silence.
Plates rested between us, porcelain thin enough that I could see the faint tremor in my own reflection. The table was too long for two people, designed for banquets and diplomacy and carefully measured distances.
She had dragged her chair around to my side anyway. Her knee pressed against mine beneath the table, grounding me in a way the carved stone and vaulted ceiling never could.
Steam rose from the soup. It smelled rich. I couldn't taste it.
Across from us, tall windows spilled pale afternoon light onto the tablecloth. Dust floated in it lazily, unconcerned with the fact that the world outside those windows was unraveling thread by thread.
She tapped her spoon against the bowl. A soft, rhythmic sound. Not nervous. Deliberate. She did that when she was thinking too hard.
"You're not eating," she said.
"You're counting," I replied.
She paused. The spoon hovered. Then resumed its gentle tapping.
"I'm not," she said.
