Connor walked over to the dining table out of habit, only to find his glass empty.
"Where's mine?" he asked.
I hesitated for a moment. "I thought you didn't like milk."
Connor didn't respond. He was not happy.
He didn't like milk, but in the past, I would always heat a glass for him and insist he drink it, regardless of his preferences.
I did it because he had a weak stomach, and milk was good for it.
Ignoring his stare, I glanced at the schedule, downed the milk in one gulp, put the dishes in the dishwasher, and rushed to the door.
Behind me, Connor seemed to say he would take me, but my footsteps were too loud, and I thought I must have misheard.
Connor and I had been together for eight years, working at the same company, yet I took the crowded subway every day.
Today, because of my injuries, I had arranged for a car to pick me up half an hour earlier.
Connor, who was usually punctual, was late. He arrived with his secretary, Katie.
The printer in my office was broken, so I was in the public area copying some documents.
My colleagues' eyes darted back and forth between the three of us, eagerly waiting for some drama to unfold.
Their gossiping hearts had been burning since Katie arrived.