For her he was always the man on the other side of the table.
He was fond of it that way so he could see her face read the shades and lights crack jokes through the grim times when on the table was little brimmed plenty in their hearts and her tears when flowed were not of unfulfilled needs but a happiness she couldn’t grasp.
She doesn’t know what she misses is love or a mere habit.
She only knows food doesn’t taste the same without the man on the other side of the table.