The Dead Don't Eat Spinach

Marcus stood by the kitchen island, swirling ice in his water glass, feeling like a zombie at his own dinner party. The spinach-artichoke dip congealed in the bowl beside him, a metaphor for his marriage—once warm and inviting, now cold and separation-prone.

"You look like shit," Sarah said, appearing at his elbow with fresh wine. His oldest friend, the only person who could still see through the carefully constructed facade of his life as a successful architect.

"Rough week at the firm. The partners are riding me about the Morrison project again. Total bull." He swallowed half his wine in one gulp. "Janice says I'm married to my work."

"Janice says you're emotionally unavailable." Sarah topped up her own glass. "She told me over coffee yesterday. She thinks you're depressed."

Marcus stared at the water condensation on his glass. "I'm not depressed. I'm just... existing. There's a difference."

"Is there?" Sarah's voice softened. "Because you haven't seemed alive in months. You move through your days like you're underwater, like you're watching your life from a distance."

He almost laughed. The joke was, she was right. He'd been going through the motions—showing up at work, designing houses for people whose lives seemed more vibrant than his, coming home to dinners filled with silences louder than arguments. Somewhere along the way, he'd become the walking dead, not decaying but definitely not fresh either.

"Maybe," Marcus said finally. "But I'm still here. Still hosting dinner parties with spinach dip and expensive wine."

"That's not living, Marc. That's just surviving." She set down her glass. "Janice loves you. She's worried. I'm worried. And the worst part is, you don't even seem to care enough to be worried yourself."

The front door opened. Janice called from the entryway, "Marcus? Sarah? We have a situation." Her voice sounded tight.

Marcus set down his glass. The numbness cracked, just slightly. "Work?"

"No." Janice appeared in the kitchen doorway, her phone still in hand. "That was your mother. Your dad's in the hospital. Heart attack."

Marcus felt something shift inside him, the emotional equivalent of tectonic plates moving. "Is he—"

"Still alive. But it's serious." Janice crossed to him, and without thinking, he pulled her into an embrace. For the first time in months, he really felt her against him, solid and real and necessary.

The zombie blinked.

"I should go," he said, his voice suddenly raspy. "Tonight."

Sarah was already reaching for her purse. "I'll drive. You've had too much wine."

Marcus nodded, feeling the pulse beating in his throat, aware suddenly of how alive he felt, how the urgency had cut through the fog. Sometimes, he thought, it takes the prospect of losing everything to remember you still had something to lose.