Salad Days at Sunset

The spinach had been lodged in Marcus's teeth for twenty minutes. He could feel it with his tongue—a small, green betrayal—while he explained to his wife why he'd lost his job again. The restaurant's candlelight flickered between them, illuminating Elena's carefully composed face, the one she used during parent-teacher conferences and fundraisers. The face that said she was disappointed but not surprised.

"They called it 'restructuring,'" Marcus said, swirling his wine. "But everyone knows it was because I wouldn't play ball with their bullshit."

The irony didn't escape him. Three years ago, he'd been the one buying the baseball team for their son's Little League, organizing the corporate sponsorship, wearing the cap that said 'Community Leader.' Now he was forty-seven, sitting across from the woman who'd once believed in him, feeling like a fraud.

"You could've just gone along with it," Elena said, not unkindly. "Sometimes that's what adults do, Marcus. They compromise."

Outside the restaurant, a street preacher shouted about salvation. Marcus thought about the mornings he'd woken up at 4 AM to drive to the ballpark for practice, the smell of damp grass and coffee, the way his father had never once said he was proud. The way Marcus had spent his whole life trying to prove something to a ghost.

"I met someone," Elena said quietly.

The spinach finally dislodged. Marcus swallowed it without thinking.

"His name's David. He coaches Sophia's soccer team. He's kind, Marcus. He doesn't feel like he has to be the bull in the china shop every single day."

Marcus remembered the garden they'd planted together their first year married—the tomatoes, the spinach, the basil they'd water together on summer evenings. How she'd laughed when he'd accidentally grown a pumpkin vine through the fence. How long had it been since they'd laughed like that?

"You want a divorce," Marcus said.

"I want peace," she corrected. "I want to not worry about which version of you is coming home. The one who's fighting the world, or the one who's already lost."

The waiter brought their check. Marcus watched his hand reach for the bill—his father's hand now, same age spots, same tremor. He thought about baseball, about how the best hitters failed seven times out of ten. How success was just showing up enough times to occasionally connect.

"I'll sign the papers," Marcus said. "But I want the garden. I'm going to fix it up this spring."

Elena smiled, and for the first time that evening, it reached her eyes. "You were always better with the plants anyway."