The Last Supper

Mara arranged the spinach leaves on her plate with surgical precision, each leaf a small green flag of surrender. Across the table, David was bull-headed as ever, jaw set in that familiar stubborn line that had once seemed charming, now just exhausting.

"You need to take your vitamin," she said, not looking up. "Your bloodwork showed—"

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You haven't been fine since the layoff."

The word hung between them like toxic smoke. Six months since David lost his position at the firm, and he was still treating unemployment like a vacation he hadn't signed up for. His iPhone sat face-down on the table, a dark mirror that had been his constant companion, endlessly refreshing job listings that never materialized into interviews.

Mara remembered when they'd met—ten years ago at a gallery opening where he'd recited Neruda poems between glasses of expensive champagne. Now he recited excuses between strained silences.

"I'm interviewing next week," he said.

Bullshit. His eyes gave him away—quick flicker to the left, the tell she'd learned to decode over years of marriage. Just like when he'd claimed he'd "forgot" to call when he worked late. Just like when he swore nothing happened with that colleague from marketing.

"David."

"What?"

The orange juice carton sat between them, expiration date two weeks past. Everything in their lives had an expiration date now, even hope. She thought about the vitamins in her purse—how she'd started taking them religiously after her mother got sick, how they'd become these small daily rituals of care she performed for a body that felt increasingly hollow.

"I got the promotion," she said quietly. "It's in Chicago."

David finally looked up. For a moment, she thought she saw relief in his eyes—not for her, but for himself. The way a bull might feel when the gate finally opens.

"That's... that's great, Mara."

"I'm leaving next month."

He nodded slowly, already retreating into that phone of his. She watched his thumb hover over the screen, seeking refuge in the glow of someone else's curated life.

Mara stood up, her unfinished spinach a testament to appetites lost. She left without clearing her plate, without saying goodbye. Some things, she realized, were better left to decay than artificially preserved.