The Last Brunch

The sunlight hit Marcus's papaya at just the wrong angle, making the glistening fruit look almost alien on his plate. Sarah watched him from across the table, tracing the rim of her coffee cup, wondering when exactly they'd become strangers who happened to share a mortgage.

"It's actually quite good," Marcus said, scooping up another bite. "You should try it. Exotic. Like we used to be."

Sarah's spinach salad sat untouched, the leaves already wilting under the dressing she'd poured automatically, muscle memory from seven years of Sunday brunches. She remembered their first date, how he'd laughed when she'd ordered spinach because it was "grown-up" food. Now it just sat there, a reminder of all the things she'd forced herself to swallow.

"I have the results," she said.

Marcus froze, his fork hovering halfway to his mouth. The restaurant noise seemed to drop away, leaving only the distant clinking of silverware and someone's laughter that sounded too bright, too cruel.

"And?"

"It's not mine."

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Sarah watched his face cycle through relief, guilt, then back to something like defiance. His orange shirt—so bright today, so deliberately cheerful—seemed to mock her.

"I never meant—" he started.

"The baby isn't yours either, Marcus. That's the point."

He dropped his fork. It clattered against the plate, sending papaya juices across the white tablecloth like something wounded.

Sarah stood up, leaving her spinach untouched, leaving all of it untouched. She'd been eating things she didn't want for years. She was done.