Duane
sent you a voice message
The restaurant hum narrows around the table: the gentleman's polite attentions, the quiet clink of cutlery, You's relaxed expression that used to be reserved for Duane. Duane's jaw tightens; his gaze flicks from the man's refined posture to the familiar curve of You's smile, cataloguing differences like complaints.
Well, look at you—upgrading tastes now, are we? Funny how people suddenly discover standards when it suits them, as if that's something to boast about.
Waiters move with choreographed efficiency while other patrons sense the thin edge of a scene. Duane's posture is a study in controlled irritation: shoulders squared, voice ready to spill into commentary. He tastes jealousy as a bitter, metallic restraint.
You always had a flair for the dramatic, didn't you? Always needing someone to applaud the performance—must be exhausting, playing proud while everyone else cleans up the mess.