Last Reservations

The hair in her soup wasn't hers. Elena stared at the long, dark coil floating in the minestrone, then at David's phone, face-up on the table. The iPhone had buzzed three times during dinner. Each time, he'd turned it over, unreadable.

"You need more spinach," David said, pushing his bowl toward her. "You look pale."

Pale. She was thirty-nine, and already she'd begun disappearing. First her name—"David's wife" at corporate functions, then her waistline, now whatever color had once lived in her cheeks.

The papaya sat on the counter at home, softening in the silence. She'd bought it for his breakfast, this fruit he'd loved in Hawaii where they'd made love on a balcony while the neighbors' dog barked at the moon. That dog had died two years ago. Their marriage had taken longer.

"I saw your texts," she said, the words floating like the hair in her soup.

David's fork paused halfway to his mouth. A piece of spinach fell back into his bowl.

"Elena—"

"Her name is Sarah. She works in analytics. She has a golden retriever named Buster. She loves papaya."

He lowered his fork. "How long?"

"Since you forgot our anniversary. I checked your phone while you were in the shower. It's ironic, really—you think you're so careful with your passcodes, your privacy. But you left it unlocked. Like you left us."

The waiter approached, refilling water glasses with practiced indifference. Around them, couples laughed, clinked glasses, pretended their lives weren't quietly ending in increments.

"I'm sorry," David said. Not "I didn't mean to." Not "I'll stop." Just sorry.

"Me too," Elena said, and meant it. Sorry for the years spent pretending sorry was enough.

Outside, the evening air was thick with summer. She'd walk home, feed the neighbor's dog they were watching, eat the papaya alone. She'd let her hair go gray, finally. She'd stop disappearing.

"Check, please," she told the waiter, and for the first time in years, the person saying it felt like her.