For two.

The table she had eaten cereal at for six years had a cloth on it.

There were candles — real ones, lit, which meant somebody had been here within the last twenty minutes — and two crystal glasses she did not recognize, and a bottle of wine breathing in a decanter she also did not recognize.

Takeout containers from a restaurant on the north side that she had once mentioned wanting to try, in a conversation she was fairly sure Mark had not been listening to, sat open on the counter beside plates that had been warmed.

There were flowers.