The Lunch

The low hum of chatter filled the restaurant, blending with the clatter of silverware and the sweet, smoky scent of barbecue that lingered in the air. The red vinyl of the booth squeaked softly as Paris slid in across from Ira. A neon sign from the window cast a faint pink glow over their table.

Paris smiled weakly and stirred the ice in her drink. “So, what’s new?” she asked, trying to sound casual, though her eyes searched Ira’s face for something—anything.

Ira didn’t answer at first. She pushed her sunglasses higher on her nose, then slowly took them off. The overhead light caught the dark, swollen bruise blooming beneath her eye.

Paris froze. The straw slipped from her fingers and clinked against the glass. “What the hell happened?” she whispered, reaching across the table and gripping Ira’s hand.

Ira’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Her voice was steady, almost too calm. “I killed him.”

The words hung in the air like smoke. For Paris, the room fell silent even though laughter and music still pulsed around them. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

“What do you mean?” she whispered, leaning forward, her breath catching.

Ira exhaled slowly. “We got into a fight last night… and I killed him. The police cleared me. He’s at the morgue now.”

Paris blinked hard. “I don’t understand,” she said, voice trembling. “I’ve been on a plane for hours to see you—and you didn’t say a word? You could’ve canceled! Was that the first time he hit you? I have so many questions.” She paused, eyes glistening. “Are you okay, first of all?”

Ira met her gaze with cold, unflinching eyes. “I have no remorse,” she said. “I’m glad he’s gone. I never have to deal with him again.”

Paris’s throat tightened. Tears spilled over as she shook her head. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know what you were going through. I thought you two were the perfect couple.”

A waitress approached, balancing a notepad and flashing a polite, practiced smile. “Are you ladies ready to order?”

Paris wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “I—I don’t have an appetite,” she muttered.

Ira squeezed her hand firmly. “You'd better eat something, girl.” She turned to the waitress. “I’ll have the BBQ ribs, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese—extra rolls—and keep the drinks coming.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the waitress replied, jotting it down.

Paris sniffled. “Fine. I’ll take a double cheeseburger with sweet potato fries and a bowl of ice cream.”

“Coming right up,” the waitress said before walking off.

Paris hesitated, then slid over to Ira’s side of the booth. She hugged her tightly—just for a second—before retreating to her seat.

“Okay,” Paris said quietly, wiping her eyes again. “Start from the beginning.”