BY ROB JAMNER
They didn’t. They just didn’t. They had once, but that morning when the rising sun pressed shadows into the table, and she sat down with that same old dog-lovers mug — she was mildly allergic but they had three — and he sat down across the table, two seats to the left, where they couldn’t see eye to eye, she knew.
She said it to him: We —
He cut her off and finished the sentence, because he knew too, knew when he looked up at the dust floating in and out of the sunlight, and mused, as he was sitting down, that it was no more than dust — there was nothing divine about it — and he remembered the tall wooden church and the oath he had sworn with her to an entity he could never believe in.
He sipped his tea. It dampened his mustache and warmed his throat. She also sipped her tea.