Expiration Date

The spinach wilted in the pan, exactly like their marriage. Mara watched the leaves collapse, bright green turning muddy, and thought about how many times she'd performed this ritual. Cooking dinner. Waiting. Pretending everything was fine.

Behind her, David moved through the apartment like a zombie — not the movie kind with their hungry theatricality, but the real kind: hollowed out, eyes fixed on some middle distance, performing the motions of living without anyone home. He hadn't been truly present for months. Maybe years. She'd stopped counting.

"Dinner's ready," she said, but the words felt like stones in her throat.

He nodded vaguely, already reaching for his phone. Another work emergency. Always emergencies. Their relationship had become a series of interruptions.

Lightning split the sky outside, sudden and violent, illuminating the kitchen's sterile perfection they'd so carefully curated. Stainless steel. Marble countertops. A vase of oranges on the island, arranged with architectural precision. Everything looked beautiful and nothing felt real.

"Sarah says we should come to her party Saturday," David said, not looking up from his screen. "You remember Sarah, right? Your friend?"

Mara laughed, and the sound startled her. Sharp and bitter. "Sarah called me yesterday, David. She asked why I hadn't been at the last three dinners we supposedly RSVP'd to. She thinks I'm avoiding her because I'm depressed. I had to lie to her. Again."

He finally looked up, confusion knitting his brow. "What?"

"You RSVP'd. Under my name. Without telling me."

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. The spinach was overcooked now. The oranges sat in their bowl, cheerful and grotesque.

"I don't know what you want me to say," he said, and there it was — the exhaustion, the admission that he'd stopped trying years ago.

"Nothing," Mara said, turning off the stove. "I don't want you to say anything."

Another flash of lightning, closer this time. The storm would break any minute. Something had to.

She served herself a portion of the ruined spinach and sat at the table alone. For the first time in seven years, she didn't wait for him to join her.