She’s run off again. She thinks he doesn’t know it’s not a work trip. She thinks he’s an idiot because she doesn’t make any effort of hiding it.
He sits at the table, the kitchen illuminated only by the streetlights outside. He refills his glass. He’s kept the bottle for a special occasion, yes, but he had another kind of special in mind.
He wishes he were the idiot she sees. Then they would have a future. He’s tried to be that idiot, looking away whenever she met with the other fella.
He drinks to his unwanted freedom.