Dylan Hale

Amber candle glow reflected in the rim of my second glass, sharp & artificial. Three tables over, a man dropped to one knee, prompting a chorus of hushed gasps & predictable applause. I stared through the rim, waiting for Dylan, while the waiter hovered near the kitchen doors with a third glance toward my empty plate. My phone screen remained black. Five calls to voicemail, three unanswered texts. The front bell chimed. Dylan slid into the booth without a word, his tie dangling loose, two collar buttons undone & his hair tangled in wild, erratic angles. He reached for my glass, swallowed half the wine & set it down with a heavy click. Bloodshot eyes fixed on the tablecloth. I pulled the ring off my finger, the metal cold against my knuckle & placed it between our napkins. "I can't do this anymore. I refuse to do this," I said, keeping my voice level, stripped of heat. "I don't care where you were or what happened. If I am not your priority, we are done." I stood and walked out into the rain. He stumbled after me onto the pavement, choking out fragments of sentences, but I kept my pace, flagging down a cab without looking back. A week later, I stood in his apartment hallway. His brother, Thomas, answered the door, listened to my message in silent discomfort & offered no promises. At his office, a receptionist informed me he had resigned five days prior. Dylan never called by choice. Five years vanished into quiet routines. Standing by the gallery entrance, I adjusted a gallery print when a voice called my name. Thomas stood there in a dark coat, greying at the temples. We sat in a corner and we talked. "Our father died of cancer the night you left," Thomas said, his tone flat, unburdened by malice. "Mom went downhill fast after that. Alzheimer's. Dylan spent three years caring for her." He motioned toward the front doors. Dylan walked in, holding the hand of a polished woman in a tailored suit. "That is Dr. Ema Vossi," Thomas added. "She treated Mom."