The Last Supper

Marcus stood at the kitchen counter, chopping spinach with mechanical precision. The green leaves scattered across the cutting board like failed ambitions. Outside, the autumn sky burned orange, the color of ending things, of sunsets that signaled not just night but something more final.

A dog barked three doors down—rhythmic, insistent. He used to find comfort in neighborhood sounds. Now they just reminded him how empty this house had become.

The goldfish bowl sat on the windowsill, its single inhabitant circling in endless loops. He'd won it at a carnival three years ago, the night he and Elena had laughed until their ribs ached, the night she'd said yes to his disastrous proposal. The fish had outlasted their marriage.

"You're being a bull about this," she'd said yesterday, her voice tight. "Charging through, not listening."

He'd denied it, of course. Marcus always denied it. But standing here now, watching the spinach wilt under his knife's pressure, he understood what she meant. Some creatures—fish, men—just keep swimming in circles until the water runs out.

He dropped the spinach into the sizzling pan. The garlic scent filled the kitchen, triggering memories: their first apartment, her laughter, the way she'd hum while cooking. He'd believed forever was a guarantee, not something you had to work for daily, like kneading dough, like choosing kindness.

The orange light deepened to purple. Somewhere beyond the window, the world continued. His world had shrunk to this kitchen, this meal he'd cook and eat alone, this fish watching him with its unblinking eye.

Marcus turned off the stove. He wasn't hungry anymore. He reached for the goldfish bowl instead, carried it to the back door, and stepped into the cooling evening. The garden overgrown, neglected—much like everything else he'd promised to nurture.

He knelt by the pond where they'd released so many things: unwanted gifts, bad decisions, pieces of themselves they couldn't keep. The water was still, reflecting the last orange slivers of day.

"Go on then," he whispered, and tipped the fish into the dark water.

It didn't look back. Neither, really, had she.