Spinach in the Sink

Margot found the spinach first—wilted, yellowing in the crisper drawer, much like her marriage. She stood in the kitchen of the apartment she'd shared with Richard for seven years, holding the plastic bag like evidence at a crime scene.

The goldfish bowl sat on the counter, its single inhabitant swimming in endless circles. Richard had bought it on their first anniversary, saying they needed something alive in the place. Now the fish was the only thing that hadn't changed.

Her iPhone buzzed against the granite countertop—another notification from Richard's sister, asking if she'd heard from him. Three days since he'd walked out after dinner, claiming he needed space. Space. The word had been expanding in their apartment ever since, filling rooms he'd once occupied.

Margot's phone lit up again. This time it was a calendar reminder: therapy session at four.

"He's not coming back," she whispered to the fish. It continued its circuitous route, indifferent to her epiphany.

The dog, Buster, shuffled into the kitchen, his nails clicking on the floor. He was Richard's dog really—a rescue Richard had convinced her to adopt five years ago. Buster looked at her with those liquid brown eyes, then at the front door, waiting.

"He's not here, buddy," she said, her voice cracking.

She turned back to the spinach and began pulling the slim leaves from the bag, dropping them into the sink. Something about the rhythmic motion calmed her. Wilted. Rotted. Still technically food, but barely.

Her iPhone rang. Unknown number. She let it go to voicemail.

"This is Dr. Aris's office," the voicemail began. "We had you down for four, but Richard called and cancelled—"

Margot dropped a handful of spinach into the garbage disposal.

"—said he didn't think you'd be needing couples sessions anymore."

She hit delete. Then she opened her text messages and found Richard's name: three days of unread messages, the last one sent yesterday morning. *I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry. I'm staying with my sister.

The fish swam on. Buster sighed, settling onto his bed near the window.

Margot's fingers hovered over Richard's contact. Delete or keep? The question suddenly seemed simple. She pressed delete, watching his name disappear like soap down a drain.

"Well," she said to the empty kitchen, to the fish, to the dog who was finally looking at her instead of the door. "Well."

She turned on the faucet, watching water cascade over the remaining spinach, washing away what was already dead.