The Empty Chair

Chapter 1: chair

Every Sunday morning, Mara photographed two cups of coffee and posted only one.

She had a favorite table at Bellweather Café, the small round one beside the window where the glass turned pale gold in the early light. She would place her cappuccino near the folded newspaper, move the sugar jar out of sight, and tilt the cup until the little leaf in the foam faced her phone.

Across from her sat Daniel.

He was always there, but never in the picture.

Sometimes his hand appeared at the edge of the frame, and Mara would gently push it away.

“Sorry,” she would say, smiling as though it were a harmless habit. “It ruins the shot.”

Daniel would pull his hand back and wrap it around his plain black coffee. He told himself not to mind.

At thirty-four, he had learned that love was rarely as graceful as people wanted it to be. It came with tired mornings, old fears, unpaid bills, and strange little rules. If Mara needed a clean photograph of her coffee, he could give her that.

Besides, she was affectionate in all the places where no one was watching.

She held his hand under restaurant tables. She rested her head on his shoulder while they waited for the kettle to boil. She left notes in his coat pockets reminding him to buy milk or drive carefully. When he had the flu, she arrived with soup, medicine, and a thermometer she did not trust until she had tested it on herself.