Division of Property

The spinach lay wilting on Maya's plate, a metaphor she couldn't quite bring herself to voice. Three years of marriage reduced to a Thursday evening partitioning of assets.

"You take the cat," James said, not looking up from his wine. "I'll take the dog."

"Barnaby hates you."

"He'll adjust."

Maya swallowed, her throat tight. The spinach tasted like iron and regret. They'd bought this salad mix together on Sunday, back when they still did things like shop for groceries as a unit, back when they believed in the permanence of their own happiness.

"What about the apartment?" she asked.

"You keep it. I'll crash with Mark until I figure something out."

Mark. His oldest friend, the one who'd introduced them at that Halloween party in 2019, the one who'd stood beside them in that too-hot church while they promised each other forever. The same friend Maya had found herself texting at 2 AM three weeks ago, after James had cancelled their anniversary dinner for a "work emergency" that smelled like perfume and lies.

The cat rubbed against Maya's shin, purring. The dog watched James with sad eyes, sensing the即将到来的 abandonment.

"I can't believe this is it," she said quietly. "All those years, all those plans, and now we're just... two people dividing pets and furniture."

James finally looked at her. "Maya, I never wanted—"

"Don't. Just don't."

She stood up, clearing their plates. The spinach went into the compost, another thing that would never be finished.

"You know what the worst part is?" she said, leaning against the counter. "I still love you. That's the tragedy. I look at you and I still love you, and I hate myself for it."

James reached for her hand, then pulled back. "I never stopped loving you either. I just... fell out of practice."

"What happens now?"

"Now we survive," he said. "Now we learn how to be something else to each other. Something smaller."

"Something less."

"No," he said, and for the first time all evening, his voice cracked. "Something different. Maybe someday, friends."

Maya looked at the cat, now curled in her chair. At the dog, still watching James. At the half-finished bottle of wine and the dying houseplants and the life they'd built together that now needed to be taken apart, piece by piece, like a puzzle they'd never solved correctly.

"Friends," she repeated, testing the shape of it in her mouth. "Maybe. But not tonight. Tonight, I think we just finish dinner."