Simon cried like he had never cried before. She had finally left him, leaving an emptiness that he had no way of coping with. Of course he had seen it coming, but being a great procrastinator he had done nothing about it.

He sat at his vast kitchen table, head bowed to the scarred and pockmarked pine. This was his place, head of the table, the place where he could preside over the many parties he and Anna held. Now it was just another place, empty and without purpose. He ran a tear stained finger down an old faded scar in its’ surface, happy times, happy days.

Light flickered, casting ghostly shadows over the limestone walls where the remains of last nights lasagna remained. Luckily for Simon Anna was a terrible aim. It seemed that more and more of late she had resorted to throwing things, an indirect violence that she saw as acceptable. Last night it got serious when she threw the crockpot and its’ contents.