Digital Palm Sunday

Elena stood at the kitchen counter, mechanically chopping spinach for a smoothie she'd drink while driving to the job that was slowly hollowing her out. The green leaves were already wilting in the humidity—much like her marriage, she thought bitterly. She'd been running on fumes for months, since the night she'd found the text message on Marcus's iPhone: "Can't wait to see you again."

Her palms had sweated then too, slick against the glowing screen as she'd scrolled through months of messages, each one a tiny knife wound. Now, her hands trembled as she reached for the blender. The water she added to the spinach mixture swirled murky green, the color of envy and sickness combined.

The phone buzzed on the counter. Another message from him: "Running late. Be home for dinner?"

She stared at it, this device that had destroyed her life while promising connection. Outside, a palm tree swayed in the wind, its fronds catching the dying sunlight—beautiful and entirely useless, like everything she'd built with him. She pressed the blender button, watching the green vortex spin faster and faster, thinking about how she'd been running toward this moment for years, pretending she didn't see the signs.

The smoothie finished. She poured it into a to-go cup, dropped the iPhone in her purse, and walked out the door. Tomorrow she'd leave him. Tomorrow she'd finally stop running. But today, like every other day, she'd just keep going through the motions, one green sip at a time.