The Greens We Keep

The spinach was wilting in the crisper, its leaves turning translucent and soft, like old skin. Elena had bought it two days before she died. Three weeks later, Marcus still couldn't throw it out.

He stood at the kitchen sink, running water over his hands, watching the clear stream distort his reflection in the stainless steel. The house was too quiet without her yoga music, too clean without her chaos of half-read books and water glasses on every surface.

"You need your vitamins," she'd said, pressing the supplement bottle into his hand that last morning. Her fingers had been cold. He'd wanted to ask if she was okay, but he was already late for work.

Now the bottle sat on his nightstand, a daily reminder of his cowardice.

Marcus started running — actually running, miles through the park at dawn, his lungs burning, his heart hammering against his ribs until he couldn't think. The physical pain was better than the other kind. It was honest.

At the club, their padel partners waited. "Where's Elena?" asked Sarah, and Marcus had to explain it again, watch the collective wince, the awkward retreat into sympathetic murmurs. He played anyway, his racket connecting with the ball, the sharp *pok* echoing off the glass walls. Elena had loved this game — the strategy, the laughter, the cold drinks after.

The spinach finally gave up, turning to slime in the bottom of the drawer. Marcus threw it out, then sat on the kitchen floor and sobbed. When he could breathe again, he ran the water, watched it circle the drain, and realized: some things don't get better. They just become different.

He took his vitamin. He laced up his shoes. He called Sarah to schedule next week's match. The grief would keep, but the living couldn't wait.