The Last Green Thing

Mara stared at the wilted spinach in her colander, water dripping rhythmically onto the pristine counter. It was supposed to be their anniversary dinner—fresh, healthy, deliberate—but the clock showed 10:47 PM, and the text messages had stopped three hours ago.

Her iphone buzzed against the marble surface, a familiar vibration that once made her heart leap. Now it just made her tired. Another notification, another distraction, another reason he was late again. Work, always work. The startup was consuming him piece by piece, and she was learning to live with the leftovers.

She pressed her palm against the cold window, looking out at the rainy Seattle street below. Their apartment was on the fifth floor, high enough that she could see the headlights cutting through the darkness, but not high enough to see anything resembling stars. Just neon signs and traffic lights and other people's lives.

Then she saw him.

He was running down the sidewalk, no umbrella, his dress shirt soaked through. He wasn't running toward their building. He was running away from it, his phone pressed to his ear, his other hand gesturing wildly at nothing. She watched him turn the corner and disappear, and something in her chest settled into finality.

Mara turned back to the spinach, rinsed it one last time, and turned off the faucet. The apartment was silent except for the refrigerator's hum. She'd make dinner for one. She'd eat at the counter. She'd sleep in their bed alone. And tomorrow, she'd start packing.

The spinach went into the pan with a satisfying hiss. Green was still her favorite color.