The glances over cocktails That seemed to be so sweet Don't seem quite so amorous Over Shredded Wheat

In the dimly lit ambiance of the upscale cocktail bar, the air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and the soft hum of hushed conversations. The couple, once inseparable, now sat on opposite ends of the plush velvet booth, their fingers tracing the rims of their glasses rather than each other’s skin. The glances that had once been laced with sweetness, the kind that promised whispered secrets and stolen kisses, now felt hollow, like the empty promises of a fading summer. Over the years, the warmth of their connection had been replaced by the cold, crunchy reality of Shredded Wheat for breakfast—routine, predictable, and utterly devoid of passion.

She stirred her martini absently, the ice clinking against the glass like the ticking of a clock, counting down the seconds until the silence between them became unbearable. He, on the other hand, stared into his bourbon, as if the amber liquid held the answers to questions he no longer dared to ask. The bar’s jazz playlist, once a soundtrack to their laughter, now felt like a cruel reminder of what they had lost. The music swirled around them, a melancholic waltz of missed opportunities and unspoken regrets.

The bartender, a seasoned observer of love’s ebb and flow, caught their reflections in the mirror behind the shelf of bottles. He had seen this dance before—the slow unraveling of two people who had once been so sure of their forever. The glances that had once been so sweet now carried the weight of unspoken resentments, the kind that festered in the quiet moments between "good mornings" and "goodnights." Over Shredded Wheat, they had built a life, but somewhere along the way, they had forgotten to nourish the love that had brought them together.

She finally broke the silence, her voice barely above a whisper. "Do you remember when we used to dance in the kitchen?" He looked up, his eyes meeting hers for the first time in what felt like years. There was a flicker of something—nostalgia, perhaps, or regret—but it was gone as quickly as it had come. "Yeah," he murmured, taking a slow sip of his drink. "That was a long time ago."

Outside, the city lights twinkled like distant stars, indifferent to the quiet tragedy unfolding inside the bar. The couple sat in silence once more, the weight of their unspoken words pressing down on them like a heavy blanket. The glances that had once been so sweet now felt like echoes of a love that had slipped through their fingers, as fleeting and insubstantial as the steam rising from their half-finished cocktails. Over Shredded Wheat, they had built a life, but in the end, it was the little things—the stolen glances, the shared laughter—that had held them together. And now, even those were gone.