Married people are weird. And, yes this is a strange thought for a newly engaged woman, but that doesn't make it less true. Chelsea's a waitress, has been since she was a teenager, and she's seen it all. From apathetic couples to the super sappy newlyweds to the overwrought moms to the embittered, mid-divorce couples, she sees them daily and she's known this forever. But the couple she'll wind up waiting on tonight… they're a rarity.

"Oh my God," Sonya gasps, grabbing Michelle's crisp white sleeve as she peeks out the doorway from the kitchen onto the floor. "Who has table 15?"

Chelsea looks up because that's her zone tonight and she hadn't even realized they were sitting someone there yet.

"That's Chels," Michelle says, glancing her way with an affectionate "lucky bitch" added on.

"What? Why?" Chelsea asks grabbing the order for 13 with a hint of hesitation before peeking out the doorway.

She can see 15 clearly from this vantage point and there's a tall man pulling out a chair for one of the most attractive women she's ever seen. That's one hell of a cocktail dress and it fits the blonde like a glove, highlighting some pretty terrific assets that she almost feels bad for eyeing for so long until she realizes if Liesl were here, she'd absolutely be admiring the view too. They're engaged, not dead, looking still happens.

"Who's that?" Chelsea asks.

"Uh, that'd be Mayor Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak," Sonya tells her like it's obvious.

And… okay, maybe it would be to most people in this city - she's heard the names before - but it's not like Chelsea's been here that long. After the near-miss on Monument Point, she and Liesl had taken a hard look at their plans and she'd moved across country to be with Liesl earlier than they'd originally intended. The money was better in Monument Point, even if TableSalt's tippers are better than Chelsea had feared. It'll take longer to raise enough for Liesl to open her own yoga studio than they'd wanted, but they're together. That matters more.

"I may need to go see if 21 needs anything…" Michelle hums, peeking over Chelsea's shoulder. "Just to be nearby. God, he's so hot it's stupid."

Sonya hums in agreement. "It's good to see them out together again, though. After everything."

"God their wedding," Michelle bemoans, sighing dramatically.

This is about when Chelsea decides she's heard enough. She has a job to do, after all. It's also when, later, she'll wish she'd gossiped just a bit more.

Plates in hand for 13, she heads out onto the floor and delivers the meals with the subtlety of a long-practiced high-end server who knows how to meet her guests' needs without intruding. The three businessmen barely notice her, which is a win on several levels as one of them has very grabby hands, and they ask nothing of her as she sets their dishes in front of them. That's probably why she hears Felicity Smoak talking nearby. It's not especially loud, but she is the only woman in the immediate vicinity and her voice stands out because of it.

"...bigger things to worry about than Dwight Sorenson. And, frankly, he's got bigger things to worry about than me. His ex-wives' lawyers might have been recently informed about some income he was hiding on the sly. You'd think given all his digging he'd have realized it was an enormously bad idea to mess with me, but apparently he's even less bright than it seemed. Boom. That's game, set and match."

She's draping her napkin across her lap, a self-satisfied little smile on her face. She doesn't even glance her companion's direction, but he - very obviously - only has eyes for her. There's pride written all over his face and affection in his gaze, but what strikes Chelsea the most is the quiet sense of longing that she barely catches a glimpse of.

Even without kitchen gossip, there'd have been no doubt at all in her mind that this man is wildly in love with the woman at his side. But she really can't figure out the near-pining she sees on the mayor's face. There's a story she's missing there and it only makes her more interested when the woman turns toward him and the look falls away in an instant.

Whatever he's feeling, he's trying to hide it from her and she's trying her damnedest to pretend she doesn't know. And man if that doesn't make Chelsea more curious than she should be.

"Good evening," she says, stepping up with a smile. "Welcome to TableSalt. I'm Chelsea. I'll be your server tonight. Would you care to see the wine list?"

"God, yes," the blonde says. "Something needs to take the edge off this awkwardness."

"Really?" the mayor asks, all hesitance and more than a little hurt. Chelsea actually feels a little bad for him. "Is it really that… Are you… Is it that bad for us to be here together?"

"No," she says immediately, looking like she's ready to backtrack wildly. But Chelsea's pretty sure her first reaction was an honest one - she's wildly uncomfortable to be here with him. And… yeah, married people are super weird. "It's not that. That's not what I meant. It's just… I mean, last time we were here…"

He gulps hard and nods back at her, licking his lips as his brow knits. "I remember last time we were here. You don't have to remind me."

"Then you get what I'm saying," she insists. "This isn't... " She pauses, huffs a little in frustration. "This isn't exactly easy for me either, Oliver."

Oh, man, her mayor can apparently go from the sort of guy that can have Michelle and Sonya swooning to looking like a kindergartner who was just told there's no Santa Claus on a dime. The sadness that pours over his chiseled features isn't something he can hide. At all. Though he does try to dial it back and he breaks eye contact with his wife to stare at her hand.

Her jewelry-less hand.

Well… that potentially explains a few things.

"If you don't want to be here…" he starts, clearly about to give her an out because apparently the mayor is a decent guy, which is a lovely change of pace, really.

"No," she counters immediately, putting her hand over his. He jolts at the contact and she pulls her hand away like his skin burned her as soon as she realizes what she's doing. "This isn't… it's not about us. Me. I mean me. It's not about me. Or you. Or me and you, actually. Not that that's really… No, what I mean is there's a reason we're here. We agreed this was the best way to…" Her eyes dart up to Chelsea for a moment, as if she's just remembered she's there. "We're here for a reason. A good reason. An important, business-related reason. Just… there also needs to be wine. Red, please. The house wine is fine."

Yeah, this isn't awkward at all. But Chelsea's seen a lot worse over the years and she knows how to take it in stride.

"Of course," she agrees, turning toward the mayor. "And for you, sir?"

But he's not looking at her, doesn't even glance her way. His eyes are fixed on his companion as if he's trying to decide something. She fidgets with her napkin under his gaze and Chelsea can practically see the moment he settles on a choice. Something clears in his eyes and he simultaneously looks more open and vulnerable all at once.

"Forget the table red," he says, still watching his apparently-estranged wife. "We'll take a bottle of 1982 Lafite Rothschild, please."

The blonde utterly gasps, looks up at him with incredulous, wide blue eyes. Her jaw is slack and Chelsea's hard-pressed to describe the look on her face. Is it hurt? Is it scared? Is it disbelief? It's kind of all of those things at once and, as interesting as these two are, Chelsea kinda wants to finish up their drink order and go see what table 16 might need because it's not like they're her only guests tonight.

"What are you doing?" Felicity asks, sounding like she might be choking on the words.

There's a very long moment where he says nothing and it does absolutely nothing for his wife's anxiety level. Her breathing speeds up - something her strikingly-gorgeous and really, really tight dress does absolutely nothing to hide. But, even though Chelsea finds herself a bit distracted by that fact, the mayor's eyes never leave his wife's face and it's all sort of stupidly romantic even if they're obviously a giant, tragic mess.

"I don't have any interest in a table red, Felicity," he says finally. "I refuse to settle."

Yeah. There's absolutely no one involved in this conversation that thinks what he's saying has anything to do at all with wine.

But Felicity is stunned silent and it's Chelsea's opportunity to escape and she knows it. So she excuses herself to grab them the absurdly expensive bottle of wine that she's sure will net her a much larger tip than the table red.

It's a couple of minutes before she gets back to them. The cooks messed up the dessert on 12 and the guy who looks like her grandfather on 17 is possibly the pickiest man this side of the Mississippi - her grandfather is on the other side and, for Chelsea's money, he still wins - sending back his steak three times before he's satisfied with the cut. But when she does get back, the sommelier is just leaving their table and the mayor is sipping his wine while his wife is staring at her glass like it just might bite her.

"It's good wine," he assures her. "You'll love it."

"I'm not doubting that it's good, Oliver," she replies a little too quickly, her voice edging on hysterics. "I'm not doubting that I'd love it. But just because I'd love it doesn't mean I should have it. It doesn't mean it's good for me, even if I've wanted it for actual years. That doesn't make it a smart choice."

The mayor sets his glass down at that and sits back in his chair, watching her a little sadly while she fidgets. God, these two deserve their own primetime show, Chelsea thinks. She'd watch it.

"It's just wine, Felicity," he finally says, his voice gentle like he's trying not to spook her further.

The woman steels herself, looking more composed than since the topic of wine came up in the first place, and wraps her fingers around the crystal stem, lifting the glass.

"There's nothing 'just' about really absurdly excellent red wine," she announces before taking a sip. She does not, however, look in her companion's direction, something that's lost on neither the mayor nor Chelsea. But Chelsea's pretty sure it's a minor victory for the mayor anyhow.

"Have you had a moment to look over the menu?" Chelsea asks in her most pleasant, unobtrusive voice. "Our head chef absolutely outdid himself with today's special. We have a Thai peanut sauce over fresh wild-caught halibut cheeks on a bed of sauteed spinach with a side of jasmine rice. I highly recommend it."

"No. No peanuts," the mayor says, deeply serious all of the sudden.

"Well, you can have it," his wife says as she eyes the menu. "It's not like you have to worry about… you know. Whatever, if you want it, go for it. I'm a big girl and I carry an epipen."

Chelsea is one hundred-percent certain the mayor has one, too. There's not a doubt in her mind.

"I'm not going to eat something that could kill you. I don't care how good it is," he insists.

"You're being ridiculous," she tells him, looking his direction. "Proximity to peanuts isn't going to send me into anaphylactic shock."

"Maybe not," he agrees. "But even though I'm fully aware that I'm not going to be able to kiss you goodnight, I'd much prefer knowing it wouldn't kill you if I did. I don't want to be poisonous to you."

Anymore.

That final word goes unsaid, but man, even Chelsea can hear that word hanging in the air. And, dear God, do these two always talk in metaphors? Stupid, fascinating, fighting married people. Chelsea wishes Liesl were here. No, wait, she wishes she could sell tickets. She's pretty sure she could make a big contribution to their yoga studio fund.

"Why are you doing this?" his wife asks, searching his face for answers that have been plain to see from the instant Chelsea first set eyes on them.

"You know why," he tells her. "Besides, halibut and peanut sauce don't go with the red wine." He takes another sip before looking back up to Chelsea. "I'll have the citrus ginger spiced swordfish, please. Felicity?"

That doesn't actually go with the red wine either, but he's made such a great, quietly impassioned show so far and Chelsea knows enough to keep her mouth shut.

"The salmon with the roasted red pepper sauce, please," Felicity decides, handing the menu back to Chelsea.

"Would you prefer the garlic smashed potatoes or the jasmine rice?" Chelsea asks.

"Um… the rice," the blonde decides. And, bless her, even this looks like a decision she wasn't prepared to make at the moment. If the mayor's plan is to subtly overwhelm his wife until she cracks and just kisses the hell out of him, Chelsea's pretty sure it's going to work his way. Probably. Eventually. It's going to explode one direction or the other anyhow.

"Excellent," Chelsea responds with a smile. "It'll be up shortly. Please let me know if there's anything else I can get for either of you."

She slips off as the duo falls into some kind of quiet, surprisingly easy conversation. It's almost like they switch modes into something else entirely. They're weird. And - god damn it - fascinating.

And she's not the only one who thinks so.

The moment Chelsea sets foot in the kitchen, Sonya grabs her arm and tugs her to the side where Michelle's honestly bouncing on the balls of her feet like a toddler who's had too much candy. It's verging on ridiculous.

"Talk!" Michelle orders expectantly.

"Don't you two have tables?" Chelsea wonders aloud. Really, they're lucky Donnie called out sick today or he'd be hovering and prodding them back out onto the floor.

"What'd they say?" Sonya urges.

"I'll have the salmon?" Chelsea shrugs. "I'm their waitress. Our conversation is pretty much limited to listing the specials. You know how it is."

Michelle honestly pouts at this, but Sonya's eyes look suspicious because she knows - she knows - that Chelsea's all about the people watching. She sees a lot more than she says. She always has.

"Well what are they like then?" Sonya ventures. "Together, I mean. Because after that article in People Magazine…"

"Oh man, that picture of them on the beach in Bali? I swooned, Sonya. Swooned," Michelle advises dramatically, gripping the other woman's sleeve. "There might have been smelling salts involved."

"There were not," Chelsea scoffs as she puts in the mayor and his wife's order along with a note to make sure everything is nut-free.

"Well there could have been," Michelle amends. "The way he looks at her. God… tell me he's still looking at her like that, after everything?"

"If you were out on the floor, you might get to see for yourself," Chelsea laughs shortly.

Both Michelle and Sonya peek toward the doorway again and Chelsea rolls her eyes at them before taking a swig of water from her nearby water bottle.

"You're both ridiculous," she announces, grabbing the appetizer for 14.

"It's just… I need to know it's all real," Michelle sighs. "I know they're just a celebrity couple and I know how the tabloids are, but I just… after the divorce I might be projecting a bit. It's not like I want my husband back - he's scum - but I just need to see that people can come back from hard times, you know? I need to hear it's real, that they're real."

Chelsea pauses at that because she's a sucker for a raw, emotional moment and Michelle is full of them but this is maybe the most honest she's seen. Michelle had already been divorced by the time Chelsea had met her, but she's heard stories. She knows Michelle had been crazy about Dimitri right up until he got busted smuggling weapons into the port and all of his lies had started to come to light, unravelling their relationship with each newly revealed piece of his hidden life. So, if she's somehow pinned all her hope on Oliver Queen and his wife… well, Chelsea can understand that.

"They really didn't say much," Chelsea advises, dropping her voice a bit. "But the way he looks at her? It's real, Michelle. It's absolutely real."

The amount of relief on Michelle's face at that, the way Sonya wraps her arm around her friend in comfort… it's honestly a little sad. Chelsea feels bad for her, but she also doesn't have time to dwell.

"You okay?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'm good," Michelle agrees, even if she looks a little sniffly. "Thanks. Go drop that off before it gets cold."

Chelsea doesn't need to be told twice. She nods, heads back out to the floor and checks on her tables, balancing all their needs. She barely glances at the mayor and his wife. They seem unhurried but strangely focused. More than once she catches the mayor's wife glancing toward table four where three extremely burly Russian men sit in Sonya's section. Chelsea remembers when they came in because Michelle had shuddered and said she thought she remembered one of them as her ex-husband's friend and she was glad she didn't have to wait on him. They won't be good tippers - with as many years in the business as she's had, she can tell that on-sight with uncanny accuracy - so she's glad she doesn't have them either.

But her zone is oddly busy and Chelsea doesn't have time to worry about anyone she's not waiting on. There's not much time for people watching tonight either and that part she is kind of bummed about because there's some prime people-watching tables tonight.

When 15's order is up, she grabs the plates and heads back to the doorway before freezing in her tracks. Michelle's headed back into the kitchen, but Chelsea hisses her name and nods toward the table in question. The other server turns and makes a silly, excited little noise at the sight that greets her.

It's innocuous, really. It could mean anything, but the mayor's leaning over and whispering something in his wife's ear, his hand on the back of her chair. And, unobserved by him, the blonde has shut her eyes like she's savoring his closeness but doesn't want him to know it.

But the real kicker - the moment out of all of this that will sear into even Chelsea's memory - is when he pulls back. Because he doesn't pull back enough. He moves just inches away from her and she turns her face toward him and they're suddenly nearly nose-to-nose in a way that Chelsea's almost certain is entirely accidental.

For a long moment, they both seem frozen in time. His eyes search her face while hers go wide. At first she stops breathing entirely, but then there's a huge gulp of air, she recoils and looks down at the tablecloth blinking hard as a flush works its way across her pale cheeks.

"Oh wow," Michelle breathes out as the mayor's wife takes a swig of her wine that would probably make their sommelier cry because one does not chug good wine. But, Chelsea can't really blame her. She doesn't know what's going on with these two, but the way the mayor looks at her is loaded, overwhelming, and a little liquid fortitude might be precisely what she needs.

"How's that for real?" Chelsea asks with a wink. She doesn't wait for an answer before heading over to serve their dinners.

"...could just go over. I mean you are the mayor," the blonde is muttering into her wine glass when Chelsea walks up. And that's interesting because her eyes dart back to the Russians at table four. It's the first thing that's made her a bit wary of this mayor of theirs because the vibe those guys give off is sleezy. She doesn't trust them a bit.

"Later," the mayor replies with a tight smile as he realizes Chelsea's in ear-shot. "For now, let's just enjoy our dinner."

"I hope you do," Chelsea smiles pleasantly as she sets their plates. "Is there anything else I can get for either of you?"

"Thank you, no," the mayor tells her. "This looks great."

"Enjoy," Chelsea nods at each of them before heading over to see why 13 is staring her direction.

Things don't get slower throughout the evening. Michelle winds up serving a rehearsal dinner for someone's wedding - complete with a four-string quartet because some people just bleed money - leaving her and Sonya to pick up the slack a bit. That's okay, though, because the night promises to net all of them some impressive tips if this keeps up and they all need it. Nearly half an hour later, when Chelsea can finally take a deep breath again, most of her tables have turned over, but not the mayor and his wife. They're both done with their dinners, but they've settled into conversation that looks like it alternates between easy and awkward.

Honestly, they intrigue the hell out of Chelsea. She's not much for celebrity gossip, but seeing these two up close is another thing entirely and she really wants to know their story.

"Have either one of you left room for one of our famous port-infused double-chocolate brownies with handmade ice cream? Maybe one to share?" Chelsea asks slyly as she picks up their dinner plates.

If she's not mistaken - and she's not - the mayor's lips twitch in mild amusement.

"Oh that's… no, thank you," his wife replies flustered.

"You sure?" the mayor asks her.

"Maybe just some coffee?" she asks.

"Sure. Coming right up," Chelsea nods. "And for you, Mayor Queen?"

"I'll have the same," he replies.

"Get the dessert if you want the dessert, Oliver," his wife tells him.

"It's a lot less appealing if you don't want any," he replies.

She huffs, rolls her eyes and chews her lip for a moment as she watches him.

"Well… if you get it maybe I'll steal a bite of yours," she suggests. The amount of surprise in his eyes is absolutely monumental. "If that's okay, of course."

"Felicity, anything I have is already yours. Always. You know that," he replies.

He's pushed it too far. That's obvious from the warning look on his wife's face, but it still feels like a win for the mayor in Chelsea's book as she flashes them both a smile and heads off the grab their dessert and coffees.

Ultimately, Chelsea's pretty sure that the mayor's wife eats the bulk of their dessert. Every time she looks over at their table, the blonde's eyes are shut as she hums in contentment, savoring a bite of the incredibly rich and absolutely delicious dessert. It doesn't bother the mayor in the least, though, as he seems more than content to simply watch the look of utter bliss on his companion's face as she relishes the forkfuls of chocolate euphoria.

Chelsea's headed over with another French Press of coffee for the duo just as the mayor's wife finishes the last forkful, when she catches the mayor's quiet voice.

"Dance with me."

His wife almost drops the fork.

"What?" she asks.

"Dance with me," he requests again, slightly louder but sounding no less uncertain.

"There's… no one's dancing, Oliver," she protests.

"So we'll be trendsetters," he shrugs.

"You don't dance," she points out, sounding a little desperate for him to agree with her point.

"If you haven't figured out by now that I'll make exceptions to any rule for you, I'm doing something wrong," he counters.

She's so very guarded, so wary of him, that Chelsea feels bad for the guy. Hell, she kinda feels bad for both of them. When did she start rooting for these two? Since when is that a thing she even does?

"It's just a dance, Felicity," he tells her a little softer.

"Like it was 'just' until we found Walter?" she asks, leaving the mayor blinking at her in surprise. "Anything that's 'just' with us never stays that way, Oliver."

"Maybe… maybe there's a reason for that," he ventures uncertainly.

"Oliver…" she manages in a gritty, warning tone.

"Felicity, please?" he asks.

For a long moment, Chelsea honestly isn't sure which way the woman is going to go. She's visibly torn and whatever it is that ultimately makes up her mind, Chelsea will never know because what she says doesn't make a lick of sense to the server.

"Well… it might give us a chance to get that one thing done we were here for," she reasons. "Right?"

"Sure," the mayor agrees readily, pushing back his chair and standing to offer his hand to his companion.

Chelsea's pretty sure he'd take any reason at all for her agreement. He doesn't give a damn why she's willing to dance with him, so long as she is.

There's plenty of room for dancing. They'd had to push quite a few tables together for the rehearsal dinner leaving a gaping spot in the middle of the floor, which is precisely where the mayor leads his wife. Anxiety rolls off of them, though they both feign confidence well enough that someone who hadn't been looking for it might well have missed the nerves that clearly have the pair on edge. For the mayor, though… for him, if Chelsea's not mistaken, there's a fair bit of excitement, too. But he conceals that even better than he hides the tension.

Plenty of attention shifts to them as the mayor takes his wife in his arms and they start to dance. It's nothing showy, no formal steps or insane dips or anything like that. It's more swaying than anything else. But, the way his eyes slip shut when his wife can't see his face and his whole body relaxes as he holds onto her… it just looks like peace.

A few couples follow their lead - as the mayor had predicted - but Chelsea's pretty sure that most of the room keeps their eyes on Mayor Queen and his wife. She knows hers sure are. And from the little squeal behind her she's pretty sure Michelle's are, too, and damn it why is she sharing that sense of excitement for them? This is not how she operates.

The otherwise-coordinated pair nearly collides with one of the men at table four when he gets up and there's a moment where the mayor's wife touches the man's elbow. Chelsea could have sworn she'd seen something in the woman's hand, but she blinks and it's gone so she figures it was just her mind playing tricks on her.

Besides, she's got other things to worry about. It's not like everyone's dancing. She hurries off, grabs a drink order from 17 and drops off a dessert at 13. It's a solid ten minutes before she gets a chance to stop and take a breath, but when she does, she immediately catches sight of them again. They've inched closer together and it looks like she's resisting the urge to rest her cheek against his chest while his thumb strokes along the base of her spine.

They're so close… right up until the distance between them seems insurmountable. The mayor's wife swallows heavily, stepping back from him. She's almost shaking with tension and the look of calm that the mayor had been radiating just minutes before is clearly a distant memory now.

"I can't do this."

Her voice is quiet, especially in the din of the restaurant with the quartet playing, but Chelsea hears it anyhow.

"Oliver, I can't let myself be pulled back in," she continues, wrapping her arms around her own midsection and keeping an empty space between them.

"I'm not pulling," he tells her quickly, which is met with a disbelieving stare. "I'm not. Your choices are yours and… I respect that. I can't even say they were wrong to leave. It was my fault. I know that."

And it's interesting because for a moment Chelsea thinks the woman is about to argue that point. She surely looks like it bothers her that he's taking so much blame onto himself.

"Can we please not rehash this all over again?" she asks a little desperately.

"This is different," he tells her. "This isn't about you leaving. This is about me staying, about me telling you that… that whatever you want from me, I'm right here. And I will never, ever stop being in love with you, Felicity."

Before he even finishes speaking, Chelsea knows it's too much. She's pretty sure the mayor knew it too because he's not surprised in the least when his wife steps back a couple more feet, shaking her head.

"I'm gonna go," she announces, sniffling and blinking rapidly.

"Okay," the mayor agrees.

"I might not be around for a few days," she adds.

"If that's what you need," he says, though it clearly pains him.

"Just like that?" she asks. "You're not going to… to tell me you need me?"

"I always need you, Felicity," he says with a short humorless laugh. "But what you need matters more and right now that's space. That's okay."

She clearly doesn't know what to say to that. It's a hell of a statement and Chelsea has no doubt whatsoever that he means it. But it's big and it's weighty and it's more than enough to make the blonde woman bolt. She does smile at him first though, an anxiety-laden twist of her lips.

"Thank you for the dance, Oliver," she forces out in a near-whisper.

"Always," he returns.

He watches her as she collects her purse and leaves. He doesn't move at all until she's out the door and the vallet's brought her car around. Then… then he sighs, a downtrodden look taking over his face as he stuffs his hands in his pockets and makes his way back to the table.

Chelsea's itching to say something to him. She never does this, never inserts herself in other people's lives. She watches, sure, that part's entertaining as hell. She loves trying to work out the details. But this… this time it just gets to her for some reason. Maybe it's that she heard their wedding was just a few months ago and she's only a few months away from her own. She's not sure. But for whatever reason, she's inclined to break her own personal rule and butt in… just this once.

"Good call on the wine," she advises the mayor.

He looks up from his seat, obviously surprised to see her there and even more surprised to hear her weighing in.

"You aren't alone in that, buddy," she thinks to herself.

"Think so?" he asks, sounding a touch uncertain.

"Sure," Chelsea tells him. "You were clear without being pushy. Being in this business, I see a lot, but I've got to tell you I rarely see that."

"She still left," he notes.

"You knew she would, though," Chelsea points out. "The important thing is that you let her know she can come back. On her terms. Whenever she's ready."

"Yeah," he echoes quietly.

"Want to know what I think, Mr. Mayor?" she ventures, picking up the check, the mayor's credit card and the cash left by his companion.

"We weren't already talking about that?" he asks, looking a little amused.

"Okay, well, that's fair. But do you want to know what else I think?" she asks.

"Sure, let's hear it," he replies.

"I think you two are gonna be okay," Chelsea says, feeling every bit of what she's saying as she says it. "I think it's obvious you two both love each other and I can't pretend to have any idea of what you're going through, but giving her space to deal while letting her know it's okay that she takes her time? That's the kind of thing that helps relationships survive." The mayor smiles broadly up at her and Chelsea's awfully glad she opened her mouth for once.

"Your wife's a lucky woman, Mr. Mayor."

And just like that the hopeful, happy look on his face falls away.

"Thank you, Chelsea," he says, his tone reserved and laced with a pain she can't quite understand. "I appreciate that."

"Of course," Chelsea replies, puzzling over his reaction. "I'll just go take care of the check for you."

He nods as she walks off and Chelsea only darts a glance back at him as she cashes out his table. He's morose, shoulders sagging, eyes lingering on his companion's empty seat. For the life of her, Chelsea can't quite figure out what happened.

Married people are weird, she decides. That's all there is to it.