Blue Light at 3 AM

The cat — Marcus's cat, technically, though he hadn't cared enough to take him when he left — watched from the doorway with those judging yellow eyes. I pushed my salad around the plate, the spinach wilting under restaurant heat that had long since dissipated.

"You're not hungry," Michael said, reaching across the small table to cover my hand. His thumb stroked my knuckle. "You haven't been all week."

My iPhone vibrated against the table, lighting up with another notification from Marcus. Are you coming home tonight? I'm worried.

I turned it face down without checking the message. Michael's eyes followed the motion, his expression unreadable in the candlelight.

"Work," I lied.

"At 11 PM on a Friday?" He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Your boss must really have it out for you."

The spinach suddenly tasted bitter. I'd met Michael three months ago, in this same restaurant, when I'd forgotten my wallet and he'd covered my bill. He was kind, stable, everything Marcus wasn't. Marcus, with his depressive episodes and his inability to hold a job, with his tenderness that flickered out like unreliable lighting. Michael was consistency. Michael was safety.

But tonight, sitting across from a man who offered everything I claimed to want, I found myself thinking about the way Marcus made the cat purr like a chainsaw. The way he knew exactly how I liked my coffee. The way he'd held me through the miscarriage last year, the one Michael knew nothing about.

My phone lit up again. I didn't need to check it to know Marcus had sent something else. Probably a photo of the cat sleeping on my side of the bed. His favorite manipulation tactic.

"I should go," I said.

Michael's hand withdrew slowly. "He's waiting for you, isn't he?"

The question hung between us, heavy and suffocating. I thought about spinach stuck in teeth, about the small deceits that accumulated like plaque. About how I'd told Michael I was single, about how I'd told Marcus I was working late.

"The cat," I said, standing up. "Someone needs to feed him."

Michael nodded, like he understood exactly how little that had to do with the cat. He signaled for the check.

Outside, my phone showed three missed calls and a single text message: I packed your things. The cat is with my sister.

I stood on the sidewalk, my breath making clouds in the autumn air, and watched Michael pay through the restaurant window. I'd lost them both in the span of a dinner I couldn't eat. The spinach had been right all along: some things are better left raw.