The Drowning Man's Spinach

Marcus stared at his reflection in the office restroom mirror, a corporate zombie in a tailored suit, eyes dead from twelve years of spreadsheets and quarterly projections. At forty-two, he'd become the thing he'd sworn he wouldn't—walking through days on autopilot, his marriage reduced to two ships passing in a hallway, his children's voices sounding like someone else's life.

The sink leaked, a steady drip of water that had been staining the porcelain for six months. Maintenance had put in three tickets. Marcus watched his reflection and thought about how he'd stopped fixing things.

At dinner that night, Sarah laughed at something their daughter said—a genuine laugh, crinkling around her eyes. Marcus felt a sudden, sharp pang of loss. When had he last made her laugh like that?

"You've got spinach," Sarah said, gesturing to her own teeth.

His hand went to his mouth. "Since when do I eat spinach?"

"Since you started those salads at lunch. Remember? New you, same old zombie."

She said it lightly, but there was weight underneath. They'd been making dark jokes about his state for years now, a shared language of pain that had somehow become comfortable.

Marcus wiped the spinach away with his napkin. "I'm sorry," he said.

Sarah's face softened. "I know. Me too."

Their daughter looked between them, sensing something she couldn't name. Marcus reached across the table and took Sarah's hand. Her palm was warm, alive.

"Let's go away this weekend," he said suddenly. "Just us. No phones. Remember how we used to—"

"—sit by the water and talk about everything and nothing?" Sarah finished. "Yes. God, yes."

Their daughter groaned. "Gross."

But she was smiling.

That night, in bed, Marcus lay awake listening to Sarah's breathing. For the first time in months, he didn't feel like he was drowning. The spinach stuck in his teeth had broken something open. Tomorrow he'd quit the job that had turned him into something undead. Tomorrow he'd start living again.