A Table For One

It was illegal to smoke indoors so she simply held the cigarette between two fingers and tapped expertly manicured, blood red fingernails on the white linen tablecloth. The vibrations made the wine ripple in its glass and the flames of the tall white candles dance. They illuminated different parts of the woman with each flicker. One moment, rosebud lips, the next the plunging neckline of her elegant black dress. She held her head high and carried an air of comfortable indifference. Her dark eyes staring into space, her mind wandering to a place entirely her own. And yet, her fingers tapped and her cigarette begged to be lit by the candles that cast shadows over her sorrow-filled gaze. A rose in the vase at the centre of the table lost a petal and became a red stain on the white cloth. One of her perfect chocolate curls fell in front of her face like a man swinging from the gallows. And still, she tapped. And still she held her head high; a perfect sculpture of elegance and mystery but hollow inside, because a lonely heart cannot survive at a table for one.