The Last Spinach Salad

Elena stared at the wilted spinach on her plate, its once-vibrant leaves now sagging under the weight of balsamic dressing and thirty minutes of waiting. The restaurant hummed around her—couples leaning into each other, friends laughing, the clink of wine glasses. Just like every Friday night for the past six months, she'd arrived first.

Her iPhone screen illuminated the dark table. *Running 15 behind. Market chaos.* Another text from Marcus. Always the market. Since the bull run had begun last spring, their marriage had been trading at a steep discount.

She remembered their early years—his phone tucked away in his pocket, his hands reaching across the table to hold hers. Now his iPhone was like a third wheel, demanding constant attention. He'd stopped looking her in the eye during conversations. Stopped touching her. Stopped being present.

The waiter returned, sympathy in his eyes. "Another drink, ma'am?"

She shook her head, reached for her purse. Something in her shifted.

Marcus stumbled in ten minutes later, breathless, tie loosened, phone already pressed to his ear. "Gotta take this," he mouthed, sliding into the booth without meeting her gaze.

"Bullshit," she said softly.

He lowered the phone, blinked. "What?"

"Bullshit. All of it." Elena placed her napkin beside her untouched wine. "The market doesn't care if you're here. But I did. I used to."

"El, baby, it's earnings season—"

"It's always something." She stood, buttoning her coat. "I'm not asking you to choose between me and your career, Marcus. I'm asking you to remember there's a difference between a living and a life."

Outside, the city lights blurred. Her phone buzzed—Marcus calling, probably apologizing, probably genuinely meaning it this time. She declined the call, kept walking toward the subway, toward her apartment alone, toward whatever came next. The spinach hadn't been the problem. It was that she'd finally stopped swallowing his excuses whole.