Fast Fiction: Bottomless Mimosas

She was drunk even before the food arrived. Not her plan, of course, seeing as it was a Sunday morning and she had a list of errands she intended to cross off after breakfast. But it’s not everyday you find yourself sitting across your husband with whom you’ve been separated from for six months. And it’s not everyday the waitress at your favorite breakfast spot informs you that today’s deal is bottomless mimosas at no extra charge.

So, bottomless mimosas it is.

He looked the same. Not that she really expected him to look different, not really. After all, do people change in six months? His skin was tanner, evidence that the new apartment he moved to by the ocean had been a smart choice. He was also growing his hair out, despite knowing her very strong opinion that he looked much better with it short. Crew cut. And yet, when he had first walked through the café doors, her fingers twitched, something like gravity wanting to pull them to his head, run them through his thick blonde curls.

When the waitress brought over her forth mimosa, he cleared his throat.

“Might want to slow down there, Lydia,” he warned, but he smiled as he said it, and she figured they were alright.

“Or what, you’ll divorce me?” Laughter bubbled like champagne through her.

Perhaps she said it too loud, for he shifted in his seat, clearing his throat once more. “About that

“Still playing soccer on Fridays?” she boomed, again forgetting that with each alcoholic drink she inhales, her volume gets cranked up a notch louder.

“Yes, still playing.”

She looked down at her glass to hide the grin on her face. She liked knowing these facts about his life; she felt comforted by the familiarity. The conversation to this point had revolved all around it. Yes, his boss was still Randy. Yes, he still ate Rotisserie chicken once a week. Yes, he still played soccer with his buddies on Friday evenings.

“Listen, Lydia…”

The somber tone in his voice made her head snap up. Smile gone, just like that.

“What’s wrong?”

Another clearing of his throat.

“Jesus, Henry, just say it,” she snapped, unable to handle his pained eyes on her. A thousand thoughts swirled in her mind at once, none quite landing.

“The real reason I asked you here is… I do want a divorce.”

Lydia’s hand flew to her chest, but not before hitting her champagne glass and toppling it to the ground in a bubbly explosion.

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