Spinach at the Wake

Margaret smoothed the stray gray hairs at her temples, catching her reflection in the restaurant window. At fifty-four, she'd stopped caring about hiding them, but tonight—tonight she needed armor. The funeral reception for David, their former business partner, had been her idea. Necessary closure, she'd told herself. Necessary theater.

Inside, Richard sat at the corner table, his signature fedora casting a shadow across eyes that hadn't changed in thirty years. The bull-headed charisma that had made him a brilliant negotiator also made him impossible to love. She'd learned that the hard way.

"You look tired," he said as she slid into the booth, not standing.

"And you look exactly the same. Still wearing that ridiculous hat indoors."

"Some traditions matter." He signaled the waiter. "Remember the spinach incident?"

She did. 1998, the night they'd celebrated their first successful startup launch. She'd had spinach stuck in her teeth through half the presentation to investors. Richard had let her walk around with it for three hours—watched her charm potential backers while humiliated, then laughed himself sick when she finally caught her reflection in the bathroom mirror. His idea of tough love. Her first clue that their friend-ship was a performance.

"That was the moment I knew," she said now.

"Knew what?"

"That you'd always choose the joke over the person."

The waiter arrived. Richard ordered scotch. Margaret asked for water.

"David's widow mentioned something," Richard said, swirling his glass. "Before the funeral. Said you two stayed in touch. After the divorce."

"We did."

"As what? Friends?"

"As people who understood what you'd done to us both."

The bull leaned forward, hat tilting back. For the first time, she saw something like genuine confusion in his expression. The realization settled over her: he'd never actually known. He'd spent three decades believing his manipulation was just business-as-usual, his betrayals were necessary losses, his cruelty was honesty.

He wasn't a villain. He was just incapable of seeing past himself.

"David died forgiving you," she said. "I never could."

"Margaret—"

"Save it. The spinach wasn't funny then. The hat isn mysterious now. You're just lonely, and you still think everyone else is playing the same game you are."

She stood up, leaving cash for her untouched water.

"We're not friends, Richard. We're just survivors of the same wreck."