They were fighting near-constantly before she left the country for a month, ostensibly on business. He had almost felt they were going to break up, just because of how intense the fighting had gotten—you didn't normally shout like that when you were in a healthy, happy relationship—you didn't feel the need to. It comes as no surprise to him, then, that she only calls once, that they e-mail one another infrequently, neither having the time nor the patience to sit and e-mail back and forth, not with the fourteen hour time difference, and the left-over animosity lurking between him. It is not surprising, either, that she waits until she's been back a week to call him, ask him if he wants to grab coffee—she's avoiding him, he reasons, and he doesn't blame her; after all, she's only putting off the inevitable.

They agree to meet at the little diner a block away from his apartment; the one where the waitress pretends to care about what you order, instead of making mmhm noises, and writing whatever she wants on her dupe pad, and it's there that she's waiting for him, at ten thirty, on the dot, just as she promised.

She's sitting in the corner booth—their booth, the one they request whenever it isn't too busy and they can have a preference about where they sit—reading the menu, and looking worried. He leans in to kiss her before sitting across from her, and says, perhaps more cheerfully than he feels, “So how was your trip?”

She looks up and smiles, shakes her head, and returns to studying the menu, as if in the month she's been gone they've suddenly replaced everything she was ever interested in ordering with something new. “It was,” she says finally.

Mercifully, the waitress appears just then, sparing him from saying something further. Do they want coffee, or something else? Are they ready to order?

He almost asks her to give them a minute to order, but she speaks up before he can say anything, tells their waitress that she'll have a cup of coffee, thank you, and a slice of blueberry pie.

“And for you, sir?” says the waitress, without the slightest hint of irony (in jeans and a flannel shirt, he is no 'sir'), and he finds himself telling her that he doesn't want anything to drink, just water, but could she please bring him a piece of cherry pie?

With a smile, their waitress disappears, and he finds himself staring at her, trying to think of something to say. “Did you want to do anything else today, besides get coffee?” he asks finally.

“Mara wants us to meet with her at eleven thirty,” she says, playing with a sugar packet. “She wants to show us her new apartment.”

“Oh,” he says, and before he can think of anything to add, so as not to sound unintelligent, their waitress reappears with coffee and pie, leaving both on the table before disappearing once again.

She doctors her coffee—two cream, one sugar—and smiles across the table at him. “Is that all you can say?” she asks, before taking a bite of pie, a sip of coffee.

“Um,” he replies, and finds that yes, that is all he has to say. He shrugs, and she smiles again, and shakes her head.

“I should have known,” she murmurs, almost indistinct. They eat their pie in silence.

Eventually the waitress comes around again, to refill her cup, and he finds the courage to speak.

“Before the trip—all the fighting,” he says, and hesitates for a moment, carefully gauging her reaction (a thoughtful stare) before continuing forward. “Are we all right?”

“We're fine,” she answers, too quickly. “It's all past us now.”

Something about her voice suggests that no, it is not all past, and so he finds the courage to speak. “What's wrong?”

“It's just,” she says, leaning forward, and playing with the spoon still stuck in her mug of coffee, “It's just, I feel like I don't know you anymore. You know?”

He nods, trying to meet her eyes, to say something—that he's still the same, it's her that's changed, she's the one that's been gone—but she keeps staring, almost obstinately, at the cup of coffee. He clears his throat. “I haven't changed. You're the one that's been gone,” he says, trying not to sound accusatory, and failing.

She bristles visibly, obviously irritated, and he braces himself. Here it is. “It wasn't as if I had a choice,” she replies, glancing up, finally meeting his eyes, before looking away. Her voice is even, patient. “If I would've had a choice, I would've stayed. You know that.”

“I know that,” he echoes, trying not to let his surprise show. “Anyway, I don't think I've changed.”

“You don't think you have, but you have,” she informs him, “but you have. Something about you is—is different.”

“I don't understand quite what you're getting at,” he admits, staring at the tabletop and wishing he had a cup of coffee himself—something to wrap his hands around, keep his fingers occupied while he sorts out his thoughts. He picks up a fork at last, begins to twist it idly in his fingers. “Are you still happy with me?”

“Oh, yes,” she begins, her voice full of promise, so he almost begins to hope that this conversation is not headed where he thinks it is headed. “But—you've changed. I don't know what it is, but you've changed.”

“Perhaps it's not me that's changed, but it's you,” he suggests gently. “Or maybe we both have.”

She laughs, shakes her head. “Perhaps.” She glances down at her watch. “Let's go. We're supposed to meet Mara at eleven thirty, and it's already five after.”

“You're not breaking up with me?” he asks, astonished.

“No,” she says, and laughs. “No, I'm not breaking up with you. I love you. Before was—before was different. I can't remember why I was irritated with you, only that I was. But I'm past that, now.”

“Ah,” he says, at a loss for words. “Well. Let's go.”

He tosses a twenty onto the table, enough to cover their bill and the tip.

Linking hands, they leave the restaurant.