The Last Goodbye

The third bottle of Cabernet couldn't drown out the truth: I'd become a zombie somewhere between the divorce papers and the forklift accident that took my career. Not the flesh-eating kind—the worse sort. The middle-aged man who wakes at forty-five, showers, shaves, and realizes his entire emotional landscape has been paved over with asphalt.

Sarah's key still worked. She let herself in at 11 PM, finding me where I'd been since Friday: the couch, surrounded by takeout containers and a tangle of HDMI cable I'd promised to organize three years ago.

"You look like shit, Marcus."

"Feel worse."

She sat beside me, her perfume triggering memories of our wedding day, of the woman who'd packed her things last autumn when the numbness became too much. Not my wife anymore—she'd made that clear. But still a friend, somehow. The worst kind.

"Dr. Evans called," she said. "Asked why you missed the appointment."

"Forgot."

"Marcus." Her hand found my forearm, warm against my cold skin. "You can't keep doing this."

The cable box blinked 12:00. On screen, some reality show contestants screamed at each other. My entire life reduced to watching other people live while I decomposed on microfiber upholstery.

"I bought spinach," I said, the words tasting ridiculous. "At the store yesterday. Fresh. Organic. Thinking maybe if I ate enough of it, I'd start wanting something again."

She laughed, and for a moment, I saw the woman I'd loved for twelve years. "Spinach isn't going to fix this."

"No. But it's something."

Sarah stood, gathering her purse. "I'm not staying tonight. But next week—same appointment. Don't miss it."

The door clicked shut behind her. I sat alone with my spinach and my cable and my zombie heart, waiting for something—anything—to make me feel alive again.

Somewhere around 3 AM, I stood up. Found the bag of spinach in the crisper drawer. Ate it raw, standing over the sink, tears finally coming because sometimes survival tastes like bitter leaves and sometimes it tastes like the truth: I wasn't dead yet. Just learning to live again.