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Her hands were on her lap, clasped. Not tightly or loosely. Just clasped.
Her eyes focused on those hands. One bore a wedding ring.
Her hair hung to her shoulders, partly covering her face.
Not once did she flick back her hair.
She sat on the edge of a chair, legs crossed, pointing in the direction of a nearby table in the restaurant.
I asked her what she wanted to drink. She ordered a glass of water, glancing at the waiter before returning her gaze to her hands.
Briefly she looked up to say: “I am sorry”.
It was over.

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