Blue Light Hours

The spinach was wilting in the crisper drawer, exactly like her marriage. Maya stared at it through the half-open refrigerator door, the cool air doing nothing to quell the heat rising in her chest. The plastic container was fogged with condensation, leaves turning yellow at the edges—neglected, like everything else in her life since James got promoted.

Her iPhone pinged on the counter. Again.

She knew better than to look. Knew that the blue light would only show her another grainy photo from some airport bar, another text about delayed flights and missed dinners, another apology that meant nothing because he kept choosing the apology over choosing her.

The orange sunset bled through the kitchen window, making everything look like it was underwater. That's how she felt most days now—drowning in slow motion, fully conscious, watching her life transform into something she barely recognized.

They'd bought the spinach on Sunday. James had said they should eat healthier, start cooking together again. That was four days ago. Three missed dinners ago.

She reached for the phone. The screen illuminated her face in the gathering darkness—a new message from him: "Running late. Don't wait up."

Don't wait up. The phrase that had killed more marriages than infidelity, than bankruptcy, than tragedy. The slow erosion of being told your presence is optional.

Maya dumped the spinach into the trash. It made a wet, heavy sound as it landed. She stood there for a long time, phone in hand, thumb hovering over his contact. Then she did something she'd never done before.

She put the phone in the trash too.

The orange light faded to purple, then black. For the first time in three years, Maya would eat dinner alone—and she would actually taste it.