Putting On the Ritz
“See?” Delilah said, smiling at him. “She knows what you’re really like, right? So she’ll know that, too.”
Looking away again, she fell silent, trying to work out a change of subject and deciding on the food in front of them. At the very least, making small talk about that would give them both a much-needed moment to gather their thoughts again.
“The food looks good,” she noted, gesturing somewhat vaguely at it. “Guess that’s only to be expected of a place like this. Was it always this impressive?”
How’d it go again? The host was supposed to take the first bite or something, right? At least that’s what she thought, valiantly trying to remember mostly-forgotten-about lessons in table manners. Probably best to stick with that.
She... did know that, right? She must have - must have known that he’d be there whenever she needed him. That if she wanted anything, all she had to do was ask.
Then why was it that she’d sounded like she was tiptoeing around him when she’d called? She’d been worried after he’d left - like she had every right to be -, and yet she’d waited for an entire week before checking in...
“I guess...” he answered, unconvinced. His fingers slinked around his glass again as if the tall, clear receptacle held the answer he was looking for. He looked in, almost surprised to find that the content was still wine, then took a sip.
He’d never been one for touchy-feely talks, but she knew him well enough to know some things didn’t need saying, right?
One sip became another, and then the drink was gone. He looked through the glass and caught a glimpse of Delilah trying to get his attention.
“When it went up, this was small as posh hotels went,” he answered, testing his fork absent-mindedly. Good to see there were some easy questions left in the world. “Vulgar, they were calling it.”