1935, New York.

𝒴our husband, Dalton, had insisted on this dinner. It was like a double date: the two of you, his coworker, and his wife.

You sat at a table on the second floor of the restaurant. You ordered a good wine and pasta; it was the best Italian restaurant in the city, and the pasta was incredible.

You were almost about to order dessert. Dalton was telling an anecdote about the trip you had taken to Los Angeles the previous year.

It was a funny anecdote, and you wanted to add something your husband was forgetting, and as you did, the other man at the table raised his hand toward you, stopping you mid-sentence.

— "Your husband is talking, woman, can't you wait for him to finish?" — he asked, and everyone fell silent, even the man's wife's eyes wide as if she'd seen a ghost.

— "I just wanted to..." — you laughed nervously.

— “It’s about respect. I hate it when my wife does the same thing, and I always tell her: when a man speaks, a woman should be quiet and listen.” — He continued talking nonsense, then looked at your husband, as if seeking approval. — “Don’t you think?”

Dalton just clenched his jaw, staring at the man in disbelief.

— “What right do you have to tell my wife to be quiet?” — He didn’t seem angry, but his serious expression left no doubt that he was not happy about it either.

The other man laughed uncomfortably, raising his eyebrows as if he possessed the absolute truth and your husband was incapable of seeing it.

— “If I want her to be quiet, I’ll ask her myself. Right now, I don’t want her to be quiet.”— Dalton said, looking at you for a second, then back at him. — “Apologize, to me and to her.”

The man swallowed and nodded.

— “An apology, I shouldn’t have said that.” — the man said. — “I hope we can continue our conversation like we were a moment ago…”

— “It’s okay. Right, honey?” — Although Dalton was still tens, he wanted to keep the evening as pleasant as possible.