Luca - 50723

The Space Between the Forks

Last night, I served a couple I’ve seen before—but never quite like this.

You know how some guests arrive carrying nothing but conversation, and others step into the room trailing static electricity? Lisa and Paul were the latter. And the current between them? It didn’t crackle. It hummed like a prelude to a storm.

Lisa—poised as ever in that navy dress that clung just enough to suggest she wasn’t here to play games—walked in like she had something to protect and even more to prove. But the moment her eyes found him, she softened. Just a fraction. Enough for me to know this wasn’t a date. This was reckoning.

Paul looked wrecked in the way only men who have tasted temptation and returned to the woman who knows their soul can look. He smiled, yes. But his fingers gripped the stem of his wine glass like it was a lifeline. And when he spoke, it wasn’t the charm I’m used to hearing from him on slower nights at the restaurant—it was restraint, straining at the leash.

I didn’t linger.

But Jane did.

Oh, sweet Jane—our ever-curious, too-sharp-for-her-own-good linguist—watched them from behind the bar with a tilt in her chin and a dozen questions she didn’t ask. Not then.

But later?

She cornered me with a smirk that could’ve sliced butter and a whisper that dripped with mischief: “Luca, what was that?”

I could have told her the truth.

I could have whispered that I overheard just enough to know this wasn’t about infidelity—it was about honesty. Not betrayal, but confession. Not a breakup, but a choice.

But no, I didn’t tell her that.

Instead, I let her twist in curiosity. Because some stories aren’t whispered across tables or spilled in back hallways.

They’re meant to be devoured slowly. Bite by bite.

And this one?

It’s called The Space Between—and it’s not about love or lust. It’s about the ache between them. The promise they made. And the tether that held.

So, dear readers—Jane included—if you want to know what happened at table eight …

Read the tale.

Because some truths don’t belong on a plate.

They belong on a page.

And trust me—this one lingers.

Just like the taste of regret after dessert.

Read The Space Between, or read other tales