Pasta

They weren't ready when the end came, even though they had known it was coming. It hit them when they sat down to eat dinner one evening. He'd cooked dinner, spaghetti bolognese, whilst she'd taken her shower. It was always like this. She came out of the bathroom wrapped in steam and a towel, and gave him her usual smile. He smiled back. She got changed. The pasta squirmed onto the plate, and he pinned it down with sauce. Cherry red polka-dots appeared on his shirt. It was always like this. They sat down at the table; him on the left, her on the right. Even though it was a little close to the wall, he didn't mind sitting on the left. She told him that the food tasted good. He thought it was nothing special. He told her that it was always like this. And at that point, as the parmesan relaxed into liquid on their plates, their relationship ended.

The important thing about endings, though, especially when writing fiction, is to know when to