“It’s just you?” he asks with a quick frown. “The reservation was for two?” “Oh, yes. Sorry. My husband is… well, not my husband anymore. It’s just me.” He considers me with what looks like sympathy. “I’m sorry.” “Oh, believe me. I’m not.” “Good for you,” he says, a grin cracking the careful veneer of professionalism. “I’ll take this, then.”
