Dinner for One

    Maura followed the stuffy maître d' into the dim room populated with sedate diners seated primly at carefully stationed tables covered in flowing white linen. Conversation was hushed, the clatter of silver cutlery against fine china a soft background music as she followed the tuxedo clad gentleman to a small, square table off to the side.
    A curt nod from the austere man brought a white-jacketed busboy scuttling up to whisk away the extra chair. “Would Madame care for an aperitif?” the maître d' inquired stiffly, adjusting the tablecloth discreetly to hide the emptiness vacated by the missing chair.
    “Please,” Maura smiled. She felt the center of attention and wanted nothing more than peace and a lovely glass of wine. “A dry red wine if you will.” Sweeping her loose skirt under her, she sat carefully on the padded chair, allowing the gentleman to scoot it in for her.
    “Michele,” he turned to a swarthy young man, Mediterranean, no doubt. “See if you can find a nice Pinot Noir for the lady.” Turning back to Maura, the older man promised her, “I shall leave you now in Michele's capable care.”
    I wish, she thought, her eyes sweeping the sexy young man. Aloud she said, “Thank you, Michele.”
    With a wicked wink, Michele leaned down to her ear, ostensibly adjusting her chair. “Anything for a beautiful woman.”
    Maura shook her head with a smile. For those words alone, Michele had earned his tip tonight. She was glad she'd decided to treat herself. The last few months had been hard on her and she was rebuilding her life, finding new places to belong. A place that had such attractive and delusional young men waiting tables certainly had possibilities. Beautiful. Sure.
    She sighed heavily, toying with her fluffy white napkin. She knew she wasn't beautiful. Far from it, in fact. Any illusions she'd had about that were long gone these past three months, thanks to her estranged husband Frank and his candid description of her.
    Old and fat, he'd called her, just before he'd walked out. The old part didn't bother her, she might be a year or so past forty but he was a year or two older than she was. She'd earned every minute of those years and wasn't at all ashamed of her age.
    Fat, though? That did sting. She was closer to two hundred pounds than one hundred, that was true, but she was healthy. Who didn't have ten or fifteen pounds they'd like to shed, anyway?
    Well apparently Frank and his new, younger, svelte girlfriend were the perfect size. She sighed heavily.    more >>