Chipped Nails and Cheesecake

The table’s too small. Her knees are close enough to touch his under the sticky veneer of fake wood. He shifts. She doesn’t. Her chair doesn’t creak, doesn’t wobble. His does.

The menu is laminated and damp in his hands. Smells like bleach and old ketchup. Each dish is a crime scene of adjectives: “decadent,” “sinful,” “mouthwatering.” She’s chewing on the corner of her lip, reading every description like it’s a eulogy.

The candle in the middle of the table is one of those battery-operated ones, the kind you buy in bulk for weddings or budget séances. The fake flame flickers like it’s about to give up.

“So…” he says.

“So,” she says back, like a mirror.

Her nails are painted black, but chipped. A quarter moon of bare nail on every finger, like she started something she couldn’t finish. She traces the rim of her water glass. Ice cubes shift, clink against the sides. One melts into a perfect bead of condensation that slides down, puddling on the coaster she doesn’t want to use.

He orders the burger because it’s safe. She orders the salmon because it’s not. The waiter, an underfed kid with acne and a neck tattoo that says “Sorry,” writes it all down like a prescription.

The burger comes bleeding. The salmon comes smiling, lemon wedge like a crescent moon. She picks up her fork and knife, holds them delicately, like scalpels. He picks up the burger with both hands. It drips. Blood-red grease tracks down his wrist, pooling in his palm.

She laughs. A quick, sharp sound, like a sneeze. He’s not sure if it’s at him or with him, but he wipes his hand on the napkin that’s already too small, and she laughs again.

“I read somewhere,” she says, cutting into the salmon, “that cows know when they’re going to die. Like, they can smell it.”

He chews. Swallows. “That’s… comforting.”

“Right?” She smiles, a flash of teeth. “And salmon. They’re basically born to die. Swim upstream, get eaten by bears. Total masochists.”

His burger tastes like salt and iron. Her salmon looks like a postcard. He wonders if she chose it for the aesthetic. The color of it against her black nails.

She tells him she works in marketing. “I make people want things they don’t need,” she says, “but I say it’s storytelling.”

He says he’s in accounting. “I tell people where their money isn’t.”

They both laugh, but it doesn’t last long. He imagines her desk at work: sleek, white, one of those standing ones. He imagines hers is clean, while his is a nest of receipts and coffee-stained spreadsheets.

The waiter comes by, asks how everything is. She says it’s great, but she hasn’t touched her salmon since the first bite. He says it’s fine, but his plate is nearly clean.

“Do you want dessert?” the waiter asks.

“No,” she says quickly.

“Sure,” he says at the same time. They both laugh again, but softer this time. He orders cheesecake. She orders coffee. Black.

The cheesecake comes with a drizzle of raspberry sauce, a perfect red spiral, like someone bled out artistically. She watches him take the first bite.

“How is it?” she asks, but not because she cares.

“Good,” he says, but not because it is.

The coffee sits untouched, steaming faintly. He notices how her eyes dart around the room, taking in everything but him. The couple two tables over arguing in whispers. The flicker of the TV mounted in the corner, muted but flashing. The waiter leaning against the bar, scrolling his phone.

“Do you want to try some?” he asks, pushing the plate toward her.

“No, thanks,” she says, pulling her coffee closer like a shield.

When the check comes, he reaches for it first. She doesn’t argue, just sits back, her hands folded in her lap. Her nails catch the light, chipped polish gleaming.

Outside, the air smells like rain and car exhaust. She pulls her jacket tighter around her. He stuffs his hands into his pockets. They stand there for a moment, caught in the cold neon glow of the restaurant’s sign.

“So,” he says.

“So,” she says back.

She hugs him, quick and loose, like she’s afraid to break something. He smells her perfume—sharp, floral, synthetic. It sticks to his throat.

“Thanks for dinner,” she says.

“Yeah,” he says.

She walks to her car without looking back. He watches her taillights disappear into the night. The cold bites at his face, and he thinks about the cheesecake, half-eaten, left behind.