The Last Sunday

The spinach wilted in the pan, same way the afternoon had wilted around me. Marcus had left three days ago—taken his clothes, his records, and Barnaby, that rust-colored golden retriever who'd slept at the foot of our bed for seven years. The apartment was so quiet I could hear water dripping from the faucet I'd sworn I'd fix.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky in half, illuminating the dust motes floating in the sudden brightness. I turned back to the stove. Cooking had become a ritual of remembrance. Marcus used to watch me chop vegetables, leaning against the counter with that half-smile he reserved for moments when he thought I wasn't paying attention.

"You're going to burn the garlic," he'd say, reaching over to rescue whatever I was making. His fingers would brush mine, electric as storm weather.

The spinach curled into blackened ribbons. I'd ruined it again.

I'd spent the morning at the shelter, staring at rows of dogs behind chain-link fences. Each pair of eyes asking: Are you the one? Are you the one who won't leave? But I couldn't do it. Barnaby was somewhere across the city with Marcus, and filling that empty space felt like a betrayal of both of them.

Another fork of lightning struck, closer this time. The power flickered. In the sudden darkness, I understood what I'd been avoiding: I wasn't mourning the loss of Marcus alone. I was mourning the version of myself I'd been with him—the woman who believed in permanence, who thought love could withstand the slow erosion of time.

The spinach was completely burnt now, curling into ash at the bottom of the pan. I scraped it into the trash, watching the remnants of dinner disappear.

Some things don't survive the storm. You plant new seeds anyway.