At 8:12PM, a woman at Table 5 -- tall, slim, brown hair, ground zero, center-stage -- stands and shrieks incomprehensible yet vulgar syllables at the man across from her. The restaurant pauses to watch. The woman launches the contents of her half-full wine glass at the man. The gentleman flinches his eyes shut and the Clos Pepe Pinot Noir 2005 splatters across his face, his tie, his collar and dinner jacket, spattering the table and floor behind him.
Under her chandelier spotlight, the woman sweeps herself up and out of the room in a huff of anger, exit stage-left, tears imminent, purse swinging, hand up to hail a cab before she's even out the door.
The room holds its place for a moment: silent and waiting, watching, and then like a record slowly resuming speed, it revs back up to its natural rhythms and clanks and heart murmurs.
At Table 7, Lynn Marshall watched the woman and her drama with extra interest. Lynn felt disgusted. Proud, independent, assertive, an activist bettering humanity, Lynn saw herself as all of these things. Lynn wouldn't throw wine at a man; she'd throw the bottle. Her self-assurance in that moment would appear …