"I'm leaving you". Three little words that hung around in the air as I said them while those close by who had heard the comment suddenly held their breath.
The familiar face in front of me started to go through the range of emotions I had expected.
First there was the smile and a bit of laughter. Sort of like the Tui ad, you know what I mean. "Yeah, right".
Then came bewilderment, a moment of silence longer than it should have been, as reality started to sink in. He is actually going to leave me.
The lady in the corner who had overheard the three little words turned back to her coffee, trying to make herself invisible. The guy who had previously nodded gidday as he had many times before shifted nervously from one foot to the other like he needed a wee.
I was ready for the third stage.
Before there was any anger or a humiliating plea to see if we could make it work I lowered the boom.
"It's not you, its me," I said, hating myself instantly. I mean what a terrible line to use when you are breaking up with someone. I wish I'd had the guts to come right out and just say I wasn't happy any more.
And if the truth be known I wasn't.
I'm not proud of myself. This whole thing had started after a night out. We'd met at a bar. Got talking and before you knew it phone numbers were exchanged.
Mrs P knew something was up and warned me not to get too attached. "It'll end in tears," she had said wisely. Never was the intuition of a woman so spot on.
Obviously I thought I knew better. One day I picked up the phone and rang the number I'd been given. Simple. That's how it started. Just like that. We've been seeing each other for a couple of years now.
If I'm honest I enjoyed those brief stolen moments. I felt free. Like a real man, not the office bound strikingly handsome (naturally) wordsmith I am today.
But then disruptions crept into the frame.
Sometimes we couldn't get together. other things would come up or one of us would have to postpone.
Then there was the distance thing.
Many was the time I left my car behind and trudged home across town on my very own walk of shame contemplating the error of my ways.
What was I doing? This was madness.
And all the while Mrs P sat at home, ever faithful. Ever patient.
She knew what was going on and last week she confronted me about it. Enough was enough, she said. I had to end it.
And so I did.
It went better than expected and as I drove away for the final time I felt a weight lift off my shoulders. Now I just had to have "the talk" with Mrs P.
"Well?," she inquired, as I slunk into a chair by the fire.
"It's done," I said. "You were right all along. I'm sorry".
At that moment she melted and my lack of judgement was washed away in a tsunami of forgiveness.
"Not a problem," she said. "Now lets see if we can't find a mechanic who is a little closer to home rather than across the other side of town".
• Kevin Page is a teller of tall tales with a firm belief too much serious news gives you frown lines. Feel free to share stories to email@example.com.