We’ve been at lunch for 45 minutes now. She still hasn’t said anything. Aside from when she told me to duck my head because I was casting a shadow over her food. God forbid I block the light in yet another photo.
“Just for a second,” she murmured, squinting at her phone.
She pinched at the screen, then tapped rapidly, the camera snapping away.
I bent my head down to my plate, inhaling the deconstructed bruschetta she’d ordered me as I waited for her to finish.
We should’ve had a nice day. This morning I’d ordered us room service, but our breakfast went cold while she ordered me around, taking a myriad of photos of her, sitting in front of our breakfast with her ass cheeks poking out beneath her robe, making sure I got the sun in the right angle so she’d look extra ethereal. And no doubt she was – is – beautiful, but it’s lost among the filters and the saccharine.
As I squatted over my lunch, feeling more and more subhuman, my phone beeped. I slid it across the table towards me.
A notification from Instagram: she’s posted a photo of her food.
“At lunch with my babe @instagramhusband #truelove”
I looked up at her in disbelief. True love? What a fucking joke.
Double-tapping the picture, I typed back:
“I love you too, babe.”
Guess the joke’s on me.