She had dumped the remainder of the artificial sweetener onto the
black enamel table. Using the straight edge of the little blue
packet, she cut several fine, stark, parallel lines from the
small white pile of grains.
Not very subtle, and not a good sign. He attempted to resume the
conversation.
"Anyway, as far as marriage, we've never really discussed it
seriously."
All of the sudden, he understood the feeling assaulting his
senses. Trepidation.
Something - no, a number of things - were going to happen. It was
as though a crystal ball had bloomed in his mind's eye, giving
him a quick peek into the near future. It all came in a blurry
rush, no single picture or image freezing long enough to grasp
completely. But he caught the gist, just same. He would go
through all the required motions, but in the back of his mind he
knew he was helpless. What was coming, he realized with a
throbbing certainty amplified by the wine, was only natural.
Jesus, how sick that sounded to his private ear. Still, he
wouldn't give in without a fight, for that, too, was only
natural. Quietly he stared at the lines she'd cut, mesmerized by
their orderliness.
Ivy, too, studied the straightness of her lines, her upper lip
hidden beneath the lower. She was the first to notice the
silence, to sense its uneasy drift. With a great gust, she blew
the white lines from the table and looked across the table at him
with a renewed smile.
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