*looks down at his hands, which are trembling slightly and suddenly feel dirty and useless* *absently smooths his t-shirt but, in truth, there is scarcely an additional wrinkle because you are so restrained (so cold) and he is the fool who needs (even at the cost of his own pride)*
*swallows thickly, a dull flush colouring his cheeks, his eyes still downcast because, in truth, he is shocked (that you have moved on so quickly, that you do not care, that it's over)*
*raises his hand to his forehead, all a-daze, and tries to empty his head of everything that is threatening to overwhelm him (but most of all the knowledge that you are not his)* *manages to look at you, searching your face for any tiny indication of feeling on your part but your features are taut, expressionless*
*stumbles out of the room and fumbles for his wallet to drop a few notes on the table (paying for the uneaten salad, the uneaten steak and a too-extravagant tip for services not rendered)*
*leaves the restaurant, keeping his eyes averted from Tristan (it is easier if your new lover doesn't have a face) and walks home, meandering and aimless as he tries to make sense of what has (and hasn't) happened tonight*