The Last Green Thing He Ate

Marcus stood at the counter, forcing himself to finish the wilted spinach. Sarah had been gone three weeks, and this was the first time he'd attempted anything beyond takeout. The iron taste made his tongue curl—the same way she used to when he'd cancel date nights for "emergency meetings" that were just him drinking alone with coworkers.

He was thirty-nine, and everything he'd built was running through his fingers like water. The promotion. The mortgage. The marriage. He'd spent two decades running toward things he didn't actually want, away from things he couldn't face. Sarah had asked him, in that calm terrifying voice she used only once: "Are you running to something, or just running?"

He hadn't answered. He never had.

The lightning storm that night had been spectacular. He remembered watching it through the sliding glass door while she packed. Purple veins across the sky, illuminating her silhouette as she folded sweaters she'd bought him. Thunder shaking the floorboards. He'd said nothing. Just watched the lightning strike and thought: this is what I deserve.

Now he dumped the spinach in the trash, his hands trembling. He'd called her therapist yesterday—a pathetic move, he knew. The receptionist had gently reminded him that Sarah's files were confidential. Meaning: she doesn't want to talk to you.

Marcus opened a bottle of wine instead. Outside, spring lightning flickered behind the clouds, distant and indifferent. He poured himself a glass, finally allowing himself to remember what he'd been running from all these years: the simple terrifying truth that he'd never learned how to stay.

The spinach had been bitter, but the wine was worse.