Spinach at Midnight

Maya stood in her kitchen at 2 AM, staring at the wilted spinach in her hand. The refrigerator hummed behind her like a dying animal. She'd promised herself she'd stop these midnight rendezvous with Mark's wife, but here she was, preparing dinner for two women who didn't know about each other.

Her iPhone buzzed on the counter—Mark. "Can you come over? She's sleeping."

Maya felt like a zombie going through the motions of a life she no longer recognized. Three years of this. Being the other woman, waiting for scraps of affection, convinced she was special. Different. The spinach slipped from her fingers, landing silently on the linoleum.

She started running. Not away—just running. Out the door, down the street, her expensive loafers slapping against pavement. The cold air burned her lungs, feeling more alive than she'd felt in months.

The bull statue in the park loomed ahead, its bronze form glowing under streetlights. She collapsed against its base, gasping, her silk blouse soaked through. This was where she and Mark always met. Where he'd tell her he was leaving his wife "soon."

"Soon is bullshit," she whispered to the bronze animal.

Her phone buzzed again. Then again. Mark, then an unknown number. She ignored both, pressing her forehead against the cold metal. The spinach dinner could rot. Let them both wonder where she was.

Tomorrow she'd quit her job. End it with Mark. Maybe finally book that trip to Italy she'd been dreaming about since college. But tonight, she just sat with the bull, learning how to be alone with herself again.