Someone's Point of View
The low murmur of evening traffic drifted through the tall windows of the small restaurant near Savannah's condo. Outside, neon signs blinked in the damp twilight, their reflections trembling on rain–slick pavement. Inside, a slow jazz tune played from hidden speakers, but the music only made the silence between us feel sharper.
Savannah sat across from me, posture rigid, hands clasped around an untouched glass of water. The soft overhead light painted her face in muted gold, but there was nothing warm in her expression.
"Order anything you like," I said finally, my voice deliberately calm. "Whatever you want—I'll pay."
Her eyes flicked to mine, cool and unyielding. "No." The single word dropped like a stone. "I'm not hungry. And even if I were, I can pay for myself. You don't need to buy me anything."
Her dismissal cut deep, though I tried not to show it. "All these years," I said quietly, leaning forward, "and you're still this cold to me?"
