Arrange the dinner.
Sit somewhere else.
Cover the bill.
Leave without embarrassing anyone.
For years, I had believed each act of cooperation might finally earn the one thing she kept just beyond my reach.
That night, I understood the pattern with painful simplicity.
There was no final task that would make Celeste choose me.
There would only be another task.
The bill was not the trap.
It was the final thread.
I pushed the signed receipt toward the bartender.
My hand no longer shook.
The bartender reached for the folder.
Before his fingers touched it, a shadow crossed the polished walnut bar.
He stopped and looked past my shoulder.
The restaurant noise seemed to narrow around me.
