At twilight, a call from Cecilia came.

“What are you planning, Mark?" she inquired.

Cutting to the chase, Mark proposed, "Join me for dinner. I'll give you the check then."

A pause, and silence ensued.

"If I refuse, you'll make things difficult, won't you?" she challenged, her tone subdued.

"Absolutely," Mark confessed without evasion.

Expecting outrage, he was met instead with acquiescence.

"Fine, I'll dine with you, Mr. Evans," she conceded, her usage of "Mr. Evans" laced with sarcasm.

Mark detected the derision but remained unfazed. His primary concern was his longing for her.

He suggested picking her up, but she preferred to drive independently.

Ultimately, they agreed to meet at their familiar haunt, reserving the usual private dining area.

Mark arrived early, selecting a few dishes, each a favorite of Cecilia's.

Ten minutes later, Cecilia appeared, her assistant in tow. Mark eyed the assistant, subtly dismissing her.

As the door closed behind the departing assistant, Cecilia remained silent. She sat beside Mark, picking up her fork, and murmured, “I'm famished."

It was seven in the evening, and she hadn't eaten since breakfast.

Mark served her, a rare quiet between them.

The mood was surprisingly pleasant.

Cecilia was sparing with words.

Mark, eating little, studied her profile, and then ventured, "Where's your new beau?"

“He wasn't the one. We've stopped seeing each other," Cecilia responded evenly.