The Last Lunch

The spinach was stuck between his teeth when he walked into the conference room. David had spent twenty minutes in front of the bathroom mirror at home, picking at it with his fingernail, but apparently, he'd missed a fragment. Now here he was, facing the long table of executives who would decide whether he'd keep his job, with a green flag of surrender waving from his incisor.

The VP of Operations, a woman named Sheila who'd once accidentally cc'd the entire company on an email about her affair, was drinking water from a branded glass. She swirled it thoughtfully. The ice clinked. It was the only sound in the room.

"David," she said, finally. "We appreciate your fifteen years."

The dog had died three days ago. Barnaby, a golden retriever who'd been with David through his divorce, his mother's cancer, the promotion that turned out to be a lateral move, and the purchase of a condo he couldn't afford. David had found himself at the vet's office, weeping into the technician's shoulder as she gently explained the euthanasia process. He'd held Barnaby's paw—the same paw the dog had offered him every morning for thirteen years—until it went slack.

He'd called in sick the next two days. No one had questioned it. No one had called.

"We're going to need you to clean out your desk by end of day," Sheila said, not unkindly. "Security will escort you out after. Protocol."

David nodded. The spinach was still there. He could feel it with his tongue, a tiny green stubbornness. He thought about saying something—making a joke, explaining, removing it—but something stopped him. Let them see it. Let them remember him as the guy with spinach in his teeth when they took his livelihood. It seemed appropriate somehow.

He packed his things into the cardboard box they provided. The framed photo of Barnaby. The plant someone had given him when his mother died. The coffee mug that said CHAOS COORDINATOR, a gift from a team that no longer existed. He paused at the water cooler on his way out, filled the coffee mug with cold water, drank it in one long pull.

Outside, the rain had started. David walked to his car, box balanced on his hip, and sat in the driver's seat for a long time. He thought about going home to the empty condo, to the dog bed still in the corner, to the spinach wilting in his crisper drawer. He thought about all the years he'd given this place, all the weekends and late nights, all the times he'd missed his sister's calls, all the Barnaby walks he'd rushed through to get back to his email.

He started the engine. He'd go to the grocery store first. He'd buy fresh spinach. He'd cook himself a real dinner. He'd figure out the rest tomorrow.