Green in the Teeth

The spinach had been stuck in Marcus's front tooth for twenty minutes.

Elena watched it across the candlelit table—a tiny green flag of surrender, or perhaps accusation. They were in Cabo, supposed to be saving their marriage, third anniversary, all-inclusive resort, palm trees swaying in the warm night air beyond the terrace. But she couldn't stop staring at that piece of spinach, caught like a secret between his teeth. Every time he smiled—and he was smiling so much now, with that desperate, rehearsed warmth—she saw it.

"You're not eating," Marcus said, pushing his plate away. "The lamb is excellent."

"Not hungry." She traced the rim of her wine glass. "Marcus, you have something—"

He wiped his mouth with the linen napkin, missing it entirely. "Better?"

She lied. "Yes."

The first fork of lightning cracked the sky open, illuminating his face in harsh relief. For a second, he looked like a stranger. Then thunder rolled across the water, and the resort's outdoor speakers clicked to some automatic setting—smooth jazz to override the storm.

"Remember when we met?" he asked, reaching across the table to take her hand. His palm was damp. "That coffee shop in Brooklyn, the rain—"

"It wasn't raining."

"It was raining, El. You were wearing that red coat—"

"It was March. I wasn't wearing a coat." She pulled her hand away. "You don't remember."

The second lightning strike was closer. A group of Japanese tourists nearby shrieked with delight, taking photos of the horizon.

"I remember," he said, voice tight. "I remember everything. That's why we're here. To remember us."

She looked at the spinach again, still stubbornly lodged, while he talked about couples counseling and trying harder and the apartment they'd looked at last month. She thought about how he never noticed when she cut her hair short, or stopped reading before bed, or started crying in the shower. He remembered a fictional rain from their meeting but not the shape of her silence.

"Marcus," she said, as the third lightning bolt turned everything white. "You still have spinach in your teeth."

He laughed, confused, and she finally saw it: he would never see what was right in front of him. Not the spinach, not the loneliness, not her.

"I'm going inside," she said.

He called her name, but she was already walking toward the lobby, palm fronds rustling in the wind, lightning splitting the sky behind her, leaving him alone at the table with his uneaten lamb and his green-stained smile.