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I stared at him from across the huge mahogany table. His eyes were cold. Distant. I died just a little more inside.
I had hoped that one day we’d at least see eye-to-eye, try to work together again, but I guess it wasn’t meant to be.
The quietus of our contract would lay Savage Garden to rest once and for all.
I felt the hot tears well, but I refused to cry. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Wouldn’t let him know for certain how deeply the pain went.
“Well, gentlemen. Your obligations have been satisfied.”
He left.
I cried.
~~~
quietus \ kwye-EE-tus \ noun
*1: final settlement (as of a debt)
2: removal from activity; especially: death
3: something that quiets or represses
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