I sit at the impossibly long table, a feast of artfully arranged delicacies spread out before me under the soft, chandelier light.
Yet, I feel nothing but a hollow unhappiness. My eyes are down, fixed on my plate, because I can feel the weight of his stare from the other end of the table.
It's a blue, penetrating pressure that makes the distance between us feel like a single, tense breath.
I risk a glance. Moon is just sitting there, not eating, just… watching. His own plate untouched.
I look away quickly.
The silence is a thick, expensive fabric smothering the room.
Finally, he breaks it.
"Why aren't you eating?"
I look at him, pick up my fork with deliberate slowness. "I'm eating," I say, the lie transparent as glass. Like a child caught in a fib.
He takes a slow sip of wine, his eyes never leaving me. I force myself to take a small, tasteless bite, the action clearly unpleasant.
"Why aren't you eating?" I shoot back, the question edged with my own frustration.
