Bitter Greens

The spinach salad sat untouched on the white tablecloth, wilting under the restaurant's unforgiving fluorescent lights. Forty years of marriage reduced to this: awkward silence, mismatched silverware, and a waiter who kept returning to ask if everything was alright.

'It's fine,' Eleanor said, not looking at him.

Frank nodded. His phone buzzed in his pocket — another notification from the baseball game he'd rather be watching. The Mets were losing, again. Some things never changed.

'Remember,' he started, then stopped. Remembered what? How they'd met at that dive bar in 1984? How she'd laughed at his terrible jokes? How she'd somehow made everything seem possible?

'The running club,' she said suddenly. 'I signed up.'

Frank blinked. 'You hate running.'

'Not as much as I hate sitting at home waiting for you to care about something.' Her voice didn't waver. 'The marathon's in November. I'm going to finish it.'

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Frank thought about all the things he should say. Instead he thought about his father, who'd spent forty years working himself into an early grave, his mother, who'd died before she could finally take that trip to Paris she'd always talked about.

'Your father loved baseball,' she continued, her voice distant now. 'He had that radio in the garage. Could hear the games through the door whenever he was working on something.' She finally looked at him. 'He died before the World Series, Frank. He never saw them win.'

The spinach was completely wilted now. Frank's phone buzzed again. Final score: Mets 3, Cardinals 7.

'I'm sorry,' he said, and he meant it. But the words felt small, inadequate, like so many things had for so long.

She nodded once, stood up, and walked out.

Frank signaled the waiter for the check. The spinach would have to wait. He'd be running too soon enough — just not in the direction he'd expected.