Salad Days at the Funeral

Martha stood by the buffet table, staring at the wilted spinach in the catering tray. It looked exactly how she felt—limp, darkening at the edges, pushed to the side. Three hours earlier, she'd been planning her anniversary dinner. Now she was at her boss's memorial service, watching his widow laugh too loudly with the junior partner who'd been gunning for Roger's corner office since last February.

The woman beside her—Melissa from Accounting, the one with the collection of floral hats—adjusted a fascinator with purple peonies that seemed ridiculous in the gloom of the reception hall. 'You should eat,' Melissa said, gesturing at the salad with a manicured hand. 'Stress turns your stomach into acid.' Martha's stomach had been pure acid since she found the texts on David's phone last night,那种 betrayal that tasted metallic and permanent, like swallowing coins.

She took a plastic cup of water from a passing server. The condensation slicked her palm, cold and trembling. Across the room, she spotted David near the bar, iPhone glowing against his ear, whispering to someone who made him smile that crooked way she used to think belonged only to her. He'd claimed it was work emergencies that kept him late these past months. The emergency's name was probably something like Jenna or Ashley.

Roger's widow approached, hat appropriately black but with a veil that couldn't quite hide her dry eyes. 'Martha,' she said, 'Roger always said you were the sharpest analyst he'd ever hired.' The compliment landed like a stone in shallow water. Sharp enough to notice when the numbers didn't add up. Sharp enough to check phone records when her husband started showering after coming home.

The spinach sat untouched on her plate. She thought about spinach, how it was supposed to be so good for you, full of iron and strength, and how sometimes the things that were supposed to sustain you just tasted like dirt. David caught her eye across the room and raised his glass, that practiced concern etching lines around his mouth that she now recognized as pure performance.

Martha placed her wine glass on a table, picked up her purse, and walked toward the exit. The water in her cup had gone warm. Outside, the rain had started, proper and fitting, washing nothing clean but making everything look the same at least.