Spinach in His Teeth

The spinach had been stuck in Marcus's teeth for twenty minutes—through the appetizer, through his promotion announcement, through the toast to our fifteen years of friendship. I watched it wedged there, dark and jagged, while he described his vision for the department I'd built from nothing.

"Partnership," he kept saying. "We're in this together."

My phone buzzed in my pocket. An email from HR: my position had been eliminated, effective immediately. Marcus had known. He'd ordered the spinach artichoke dip anyway.

I excused myself to the restroom, stared at my reflection until the edges blurred. When I returned, Marcus was deep in conversation with Elena from Marketing, his hand lingering on her lower back—same way it used to touch mine during late nights at the office. Before we'd decided we were "better as friends." Before his wife found those texts.

"You okay?" he asked when I reclaimed my seat. "You look pale."

"Fine," I said. "Just something I ate."

That was the thing about Marcus. He could steal your career, sabotage your promotion, rewrite history to cast himself as visionary—and still look genuinely concerned when you lied about being fine.

The dog waiting at home would be thrilled to see me regardless. Barnaby didn't care about titles or salaries or betrayal. Barnaby, who I'd taken when Marcus moved to his sleek downtown apartment that didn't allow pets. Marcus, who'd looked at me with those grateful eyes when I offered. "You're a real friend," he'd said.

I watched him laugh at something Elena said, head tilted back, that piece of spinach finally dislodged, probably swallowed down with the rest of us.

"Marcus," I said, standing. "You've got a little something in your teeth."

He grinned, wiped his mouth with a napkin. "That's why I need you around, right? To tell me these things."

"No," I said, already walking toward the door, fishing for my keys. "That's exactly what you don't need anymore."

The night air was sharp. Barnaby would be waiting, his whole body wagging, unaware that friendship had an expiration date. Some things stayed loyal. Some things you had to feed by hand. And some things just needed to be spit out and forgotten.