Spinach Signals

The spinach sat between Elena's teeth like a dark secret, and Marcus said nothing.

They were twenty minutes into their first dinner in three years, and already he could feel the old distance widening between them like a wound that refused to heal. She talked about her promotion—VP of something at a tech company he couldn't remember the name of—while he watched the green fleck flash whenever she laughed, which was often, and too loudly.

Her iPhone sat face-up on the table, screen lighting up every few minutes with notifications she didn't check. Marcus found himself counting them, measuring her distraction in lumens.

"So what about you?" she asked, finally pausing. "Still at the gallery?"

"Still at the gallery."

"Still with Sarah?"

"She left in February."

Elena's phone buzzed. She didn't look down. "Oh, Marcus. I'm—I'm sorry."

"It's fine. It was time."

He remembered the last time they'd been close—drunk on cheap wine in her apartment the night before she moved to the coast, confessing things they'd never say sober. She'd told him she was terrified of becoming her mother: married to the wrong man, bitter, resigned to disappointment. He'd told her he loved her, always had, always would.

She'd moved anyway. They'd never spoken of it again.

"My father died," he said.

Her phone buzzed. This time she glanced at it. "What? When?"

"Last month. Bull threw him. Rodeo. Quick."

"A bull? Like, rodeo? Your father was a—"

"It was his thing. After he retired. Always wanted to be a cowboy. Got what he wished for."

Elena stared at him. The spinach flashed again.

"You should know," Marcus said. "There's spinach. Between your teeth."

Her hand flew to her mouth. She turned away, then back, cheeks flushing. "Why didn't you—"

"Say something?"

"Yes."

He signaled for the check. "I didn't want to interrupt the narrative."