When Aveline and Soren went to a restaurant to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary, Aveline noticed her husband was distracted by a young, striking waitress. Unable to endure Soren’s wandering gaze any longer, she excused herself to the restroom, only to return and see the waitress slip him a note. What did it say?
You’d think 28 years together, 25 of them married, would mean someone truly cared, wouldn’t it? That they wouldn’t take you for granted or look right through you? Apparently, my husband, Soren, had other thoughts.
We were celebrating our 25th anniversary, and I was floating, as if love had struck me anew. But Soren? His eyes were elsewhere all night.
Here’s what happened. The restaurant carried its familiar scent: rich garlic butter filling the air, sizzling steaks, and a faint sweetness I could never quite place. It was the same place Soren and I had our first date 25 years ago.
Nostalgia should’ve warmed the evening, right? Instead, a knot tightened in my stomach. “Happy anniversary, darling,” Soren said, smiling across the table.
His voice was kind, but his eyes seemed distant. He’d been distracted all evening, glancing past me more times than I could count. I followed his gaze, and there she was.
Our waitress. She was undeniably beautiful—tall, with chestnut hair flowing like she stepped out of a painting. She glided between tables, her smile warm for every guest, but Soren seemed captivated by her.
She couldn’t have been 30. Soren, in his late fifties, didn’t seem to care. I reached for my wine, trying to ease the ache in my chest.
Maybe I’m imagining it. I took a sip and cleared my throat, desperate to reclaim the night. “This place hasn’t changed a bit, has it?
Even the walls are the same shade of gold!”
Soren gave a half-hearted nod, his eyes flicking back to the waitress as he signaled her over. “Hi! Ready to order?” she asked, her smile bright.
“Yes!” Soren said eagerly. “I’ll take the steak, roasted potatoes, and a green salad. My wife will have the grilled salmon with mashed potatoes.
Right, Aveline?”
I didn’t want that. I’d been craving the lamb chops with rosemary fries. But I didn’t argue—something told me he wouldn’t hear me anyway.
Instead, he ordered and started chatting with the waitress about her life. In minutes, we learned her name was Vespera, she lived nearby in a cozy loft, and had a dog named Zephyr. “Let me get your order to the kitchen,” she said softly, trying to end the conversation.
The story doesn’t end here –
it continues on the next page.
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