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broken heart latte

The couple sitting next to me in Starbucks is clearly breaking up their household.
They both have lists in front of them, some printed and highlighted, and some handwritten. Pages and pages of lists.
They have been discussing the distribution of their various glasses for such a long time, she is increasingly becoming edgy and impatient.
So many glasses. Wine glasses. Juice glasses. Water glasses.
He offers her the onion dishes (who has onion dishes?).
He asks if she wants the fondue set.
She says she’ll take it.
He asks if she’ll use it.
She firmly says she wants it.
They move on to discuss the cheese knives.
He asks if she is changing her name, and she deflects with cheese boards.
He’d listed the living room sets as his, and she’s bothered she doesn’t have one (apparently, there were two: one gold, one brown). He gives her one. He says she can have both.
They end with no fanfare and barely a final closing statement beyond her quietly but firmly saying, “I just want to be divorced” as she walks away from the table.
They exit the lot in separate oversized SUV’s.
The whole thing feels like a performance piece designed to expose excesses in the face of absence.