artificial sweetener

By three am the table was scattered with the debris of our respective coffees: brown packets of raw sugar in front of me, pink packets of artificial sweeteners in front of her, and the little containers of half-and-half strewn about equally in front of us. Her plate still had a few scattered French fries; mine still bore a few home fries and some bits of egg that had escaped my fork.

We had been silent for a while now--the animated conversations from our meal had died into a sullen, brooding silence. At this point the only sounds were the occasional clinking of a spoon as we stirred our coffee. We didn't look at each other. There wasn't really anything left to say. She set her mug down with a click and absently ate one of her remaining French fries. It must have been cold by now.

The sun was coming up through the window. Her hands were shaking. I was feeling tense and jittery. I wasn't sure what we were waiting for. I chanced a glance at her, and the expression she gave me told me neither did she. But when the waiter came by with more coffee, she didn't try to stop her, and opened up another packet of artificial sweetener, poured it in her coffee, and stirred. Another little pink packet was added to the detritus of the evening.