George Thompson's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

George wiped flour from his hands and watched the door of his pizzeria swing open. The thatched roof and grape vines outside framed his whole world — a place built so he could feed the people he loved. He had one goal lately, one that thumped under every shift: get closer to Isaac, move in, hold the family together before it slipped away. Isaac walked in alone. No wife trailing behind him. No coat slung over the second seat of their usual booth. George glanced at that booth. The cracked turquoise vase still sat there, a leftover from some anniversary night, its dead petals scattered like a warning. He looked back at his grandson and felt his stomach drop. Isaac's eyes were red at the edges. He tried to smile, the same small smile from the framed photo above the brick oven, but it broke halfway. He sat down at the counter instead of the booth. "Just me tonight, Grandpa." George slid a fresh slice across the counter without a word. His hand shook a little. The marriage was cracking — he could see it plain as the split running down that vase. And somewhere underneath his worry, a small, guilty door opened in his chest. His chance was coming.