The Last Bag of Frozen Spinach

Marcus came home to find Sarah on the couch, eyes glazed over, scrolling through her phone with the mechanical precision of a zombie. She'd been like this for months—since the layoffs, since she stopped painting. Sometimes he watched her from the doorway, feeling like a spy in his own marriage, gathering intelligence on a woman he used to know.

Barnaby, their ancient golden retriever, thumped his tail once against the floorboards. His tumor was growing again; they both knew what that meant. Neither said it.

"I got groceries," Marcus said, holding up the bag. "Including that frozen spinach you like."

Sarah looked up, her eyes focusing slowly. "Spinach."

"For the smoothies. You said you wanted to start again."

"Right." She set down the phone. "When did I say that?"

"Tuesday. You were crying about the gallery rejection."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and familiar. Marcus wondered if this was what people meant when they talked about dead marriages—not explosive endings, but this gradual undead state. Two ghosts haunting the same rooms, pretending to be alive.

Barnaby struggled to stand, his joints clicking. Sarah reached for him automatically, her hands finding the sweet spot behind his ears. The dog leaned into her touch, eyes closing in pure, uncomplicated love.

"I saw him today," Sarah said quietly. "At the coffee shop. With her."

Marcus felt the spy in his mind sharpen. This was new intelligence. "Him from—"

"Grad school. Before you."

"And?"

"He looked happy. Ordinary. They were arguing about which brand of detergent to buy." She let out a sound that might have been a laugh. "I used to think I wanted extraordinary. Now I'd kill for a fight about laundry detergent."

Marcus crossed to the freezer, opened it. The cold air hit his face. Inside, beside the ice cream and frozen peas, sat three bags of spinach from previous grocery runs. Never touched.

He thought about surveillance, about all the ways he watched Sarah without truly seeing her. About how he'd become an expert at reading her micro-expressions while missing the obvious decay.

"We could make those smoothies now," he said.

Sarah looked at the spinach in his hand, then at Barnaby, who had fallen back asleep. Something in her face shifted—the zombie flickered, and for a moment, Marcus saw the woman who had once painted murals on their bedroom ceiling at 3 AM, drunk on possibility.

"Okay," she said. "But first, help me up. I think my legs have forgotten how to work."

Marcus set down the spinach. He reached for her hand. Their fingers touched, and for the first time in months, it wasn't automatic. It was deliberate. A choice.

Barnaby sighed in his sleep, dreaming of runs they hadn't taken in years. Outside, the city hummed with millions of people pretending to be alive. Inside, two ghosts decided to try anyway.