Storm Over Salads

The spinach clung stubbornly to Marcus's back molar, a tiny green flag of surrender in what had become a three-hour interrogation. He could feel it with his tongue—could sense its accusatory presence every time he opened his mouth to defend himself.

Outside floor-to-ceiling windows, lightning fractured the November sky, illuminating Elena's face in harsh strobe flashes. She'd been crying. Or maybe it was just the shadows playing tricks again.

"That's bull, Marcus." She said it softly, which was worse than screaming. "You think I don't know what happens on those 'business trips'?"

The restaurant was nearly empty. A waiter materialized, refilled water glasses, vanished like a guilty conscience.

"It's not what you think." Marcus heard the pathetic inadequacy of his own words. They hung there, exposed and trembling, like himself.

"Then what is it?" Elena's voice broke. "Because whatever this is—whatever we're doing—it's killing me. Slowly. Like something rotting from the inside out."

Another flash of lightning. The thunder followed seconds later, a guttural growl that seemed to come from somewhere deep in the city's chest. Marcus thought about all the things he couldn't say. The promotion that required impossible sacrifices. The loans, the expectations, the carefully constructed life that was somehow both everything he'd wanted and nothing he'd chosen.

He reached across the table. His hand found hers—cold, motionless, not pulling away but not welcoming either.

"I'm tired too, El."

Her eyes searched his face for something real, something she could hold onto. The spinach was still there, an absurd detail in this moment of devastation. He should excuse himself, go to the bathroom, remove it. But that would mean letting go of her hand.

Instead, he squeezed tighter. Outside, the rain began to fall, washing the city clean or maybe just drowning it, depending on how you looked at such things.