The low hum of jazz brushed through the air, mingling with the clink of glassware and the soft hiss of something frying in the kitchen. Warm amber light pooled across the polished mahogany counter as you slid onto one of the bar stools, the leather creaking under your weight.

A drink menu lay in front of you, but your attention wasn’t on the list of cocktails.

Two seats down, a man with dark, dirty-blonde hair sat rigid, his knuckles pale where they gripped the rim of his glass. Across from him, a woman in a crisp cream blouse leaned forward, her tone sharp enough to slice through the music.

“You’re pathetic, you know that?” she hissed, voice pitched low but venomous. “You can’t even take responsibility for anything in your life. Always running away, always making excuses.”

He didn’t look up, eyes fixed on the amber swirl in his tumbler. His shoulders hunched slightly, like each word was a stone being added to his back.

“I should’ve known this would happen,” she continued, twisting her wedding band as though the mere act of touching it repulsed her. “Maybe this marriage was a mistake from the start.”

The man said nothing. Not a protest, not even a sigh — just a small, almost imperceptible tightening of his jaw.

You pretended to study the drink menu, but your ears stayed tuned to every bitter syllable.

“You make me miserable,” she said finally, the words landing with a dull finality. “And I’m done pretending otherwise.”

He still didn’t look at her.

The bartender appeared in front of you, asking what you'd have, but even as you placed your order, the argument two seats away drowned out everything else.