"Oh," was all he managed to say before he seated himself.
"I gave Marie the rest of the afternoon off," Greta said. "I
fixed it myself."
"It smells wonderful," Matthew said, smiling but puzzled. They
only ate in the dining room when entertaining guests. Why so
formal all of the sudden?
She poured him a glass of wine and handed it to him, then lifted
her own glass and held it out to him. But he had already taken a
sip and was lifting the lid off of the covered dish. She
hesitated, almost said something, and sighed instead. She tasted
her wine and watched him for any sign of recollection, any hint
of awareness.
Matthew placed the covered lid aside. "Wow, my favorite dinner,"
he said.
"I know," she said, clearing her throat.
He gestured for her plate and selected one delicate hen for her,
two for himself. He ladled sauce over his birds and vegetables,
took another sip of his wine, and dug in. Barely ten seconds into
his meal, and Greta could see that his mind was already somewhere
else.
No, she admitted to herself, he had not remembered. And with this
knowledge came a strange aching feeling, a throbbing, in her left
hand, where what had once symbolized their marriage used to be.
The doctors had told her that that would sometimes happen. That
at odd times it would feel as though everything were in its right
place, like normal.
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