Talk to Me

It was a cold Friday evening in London. Last week, he was already dressed up, ready to get lost. To forget his pain. Except, he didn't. Meeting Henry still felt like a dream. They haven't seen each other since. Henry didn't send a note. And now, Victor was sitting at the dining table with Emily. They were having supper.
"I am not sure whether you or the fruit look more devastated," said Emily and Victor looked up in a confusion. "You are torturing that poor thing," she added, pointing at his plate. He looked down and stopped. They were quiet.