*waits until you're gone (but it'll be so much longer before his memory is rid of your scent, your beauty, the tickle of your beard on his cheek) and then tugs a couple paper towels out of the dispenser, soaking them in ice-cold water*
*slowly, methodically dabs at his face, his neck until he cannot feel the burn of your lips anymore* *has to stop midway through to squeeze his eyes shut so tightly he sees stars, to cover his mouth with his forearm and bite down hard as he chokes back a loud, ragged sob* *doesn't know how a man is supposed to mourn a loss like his, only that he hasn't had time enough to do it, not by half*
*doesn't have the first clue, either, what he's supposed to tell his date about the redness around his eyes, or the lethargy that's settling on him again, but as he walks back out into the restaurant, has to admit to himself that "I feel sick" is only true enough*