Her gaze, to the floor. His, on her.
‘Pop’! Champagne.
‘What are we celebrating?’
‘Our seven-year-itch, honey’.
She shifts uneasily.
They plough through the four-course meal.
‘Burrrp’. She glares.
‘Sorry!’ he smiles, picking his nose.
The bill arrives. ‘ Crap!!!! 7000 bucks?’
She watches, aghast. And suddenly, laughs.
‘Happy Anniversary’. Hands him the yellowed divorce papers.
