Clockwork

The **zombie** apocalypse, Elena had discovered, didn't arrive with screaming or blood. It arrived on a Tuesday, with Gary asking if she'd remembered to schedule the dental cleaning, and then returning to his laptop when she said yes.

She stood at the kitchen counter, chopping **spinach** for a salad neither of them particularly wanted. The knife went through the leaves with a satisfying crisp sound. Through the window, she could see the neighbors' **palm** tree swaying in the wind, its fronds brown at the edges, dying from the tips inward.

"You're quiet," Gary said, finally looking up from his screen.

"Just thinking."

"About what?"

The **papaya** on the counter was overripe, its skin mottled with dark spots. She'd bought it three days ago, intending to make something fresh, something alive. Instead, it sat there, softening quietly, while they both moved through their routines like ghosts haunting their own marriage.

"About how we used to be," Elena said.

Gary's phone buzzed. He glanced at it, then back at her. "We're fine, El. We're good. Different phase of life, that's all."

"Different phase." She laughed, and the sound surprised her—it wasn't a happy sound. "Gary, when's the last time you looked at me? Actually *looked* at me?"

He blinked. His hand moved toward the **orange** on the counter, then stopped. "I see you every day."

"You don't." She put down the knife. "You see someone who manages the calendar and pays the bills and asks about your day and remembers the dental appointments. You haven't seen me since before you got that promotion. Since before we decided success looked like a house we barely live in."

Gary stood up slowly. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't want to be a zombie anymore," Elena said. "I don't want us to be zombies."

The papaya split open under its own weight, spilling onto the counter. The smell hit them both—sweet and fermenting, the scent of something that had waited too long.

Gary reached across the counter. His palm found hers. For the first time in months, his phone stayed dark on the table.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. Tell me. Tell me everything."

Outside, the palm tree kept swaying in the wind, dying and living at the same time, holding on.