Left at the Plate

They'd played this game before — the silent treatment across the dinner table, the choreography of avoidance. Marcus moved his **baseball** cap from the counter to his head, the universal sign for *I'm leaving*.

"Sit down," Elena said, her voice tight. She pushed the bowl of **spinach** salad toward him. "We need to eat first."

The **water** in their glasses had gone warm, condensation rings bleeding into the wooden table. Outside, an **orange** glow from the streetlamp cast long shadows across their untouched plates.

"I'm not hungry." He wouldn't look at her. His **hair** was getting longer at the neck — she used to trim it for him, back when they still touched.

"You're never hungry anymore." Her fork clattered against the plate. "You're never here anymore."

The baseball cap said it all. Marcus was already gone, checking out of their marriage one inning at a time. They used to watch games together, her curled into his shoulder, shouting at the television. Now the only thing he threw was excuses.

"My mother called," she tried. "She's asking about us."

"What did you say?"

"I said we're fine." Elena laughed bitterly. "I'm good at lying. You taught me that."

Marcus finally looked at her. Really looked at her, like he was seeing someone he used to know. "You think you're the only one who's tired, Elena? You think you're the only one drowning here?"

"Then why won't you fight for us? Why the cap? Why always leaving?"

The orange light shifted as the streetlamp flickered. Their future flickered with it.

"Because I'm not the one who stopped trying," he said quietly.

Her mind flashed to three months ago, six months ago, a year — to every dinner she'd let go cold, every conversation she'd cut short, every night she'd turned away when he reached for her. The spinach wilted on both their plates.

Marcus walked out.

Elena sat alone as the glass of water grew completely still.