Everyone in the diner is talking but us. The only conversation is in the rising steam of your coffee, which wafts this way and that with our breath. I weave and unweave my fingers over my stained placemat, unable to look up past the flannelled arms which are barred across your chest. The waitress comes to refill my glass--half-full with melted ice--and you wave her off without speaking.
"You used to be so beautiful," you finally say, unraveling your arms from in front of you. Your voice breaks mid-sentence, and--despite myself--I cannot help but believe you.
