Dead Inside, Eating Clean

The **spinach** was stuck between my teeth when Marcus walked into the kitchen. I'd been chewing mechanically, staring at the calendar on the refrigerator where he'd circled next Tuesday in red ink. Three years, it would be. Three years since I started taking that **vitamin** D supplement he swore would cure my seasonal affective disorder, three years since I stopped writing, three years since I felt anything close to desire.

"You're up early," he said, avoiding my eyes. He poured coffee with the practiced efficiency of someone who has done the same thing a thousand times. His phone buzzed on the counter — the third time this morning.

"Couldn't sleep." I swallowed the spinach without tasting it. "Big presentation at work."

It wasn't a total lie. There was a presentation. But what kept me awake was the feeling that had been growing in my chest like a tumor — the certainty that Marcus was a **spy** in his own life, and mine, infiltrating our marriage with secrets I couldn't prove existed. The late nights. The encrypted folder on his laptop. The sudden interest in cryptocurrency.

I'd become a **zombie** moving through the days, hollowed out by suspicion, animated only by the ritual of checking his browser history, his bank statements, his pockets. The vitamins and the spinach and the morning runs were performances of wellness for a marriage that had died while I was busy pretending to be happy.

"Marcus," I said. "Whatever it is — whatever you're hiding — just tell me."

He set down his coffee mug. For the first time in months, he really looked at me.

"I'm not having an affair," he said quietly. "I've been taking night classes. Coding bootcamp. I wanted to surprise you — I got promoted to a position that actually pays enough for you to quit that job you hate. For you to start writing again."

The spinach between my teeth suddenly felt enormous. The vitamins on the counter, the healthy breakfast, the performance of wellness — all of it — suddenly seemed obscene. I wasn't a victim. I was the one who'd stopped participating.

"I haven't written in three years," I whispered.

"I know," he said. "That's why I did it. So you could remember who you were before you became this person I don't know how to talk to anymore."

The spinach was still there, but for the first time, I could taste it.