The Last Supper

Marcus adjusted his tie in the rearview mirror, conscious of the piece of spinach lodged between his teeth—a small rebellion against his wife's insistence that he eat more greens, even on the night he was planning to leave her.

The corporate cafeteria stretched before him like an Egyptian tomb, fluorescent lights humming their funeral dirge. Above him, the organizational chart formed a perfect pyramid: his boss at the apex, middle management wedged into suffocating layers, line workers like Marcus crushed beneath the weight of expectations.

He spotted Sarah at their usual table, picking at a salad. She looked up and their eyes met—the same eyes that had watched him through twenty years of mortgage payments, career stagnation, and the slow erosion of whatever dreams they'd shared in their twenties. Now she looked like something that had been alive once, drained by the relentless routine of suburban life. A zombie of the woman he'd married, going through the motions because the alternative was acknowledging that somewhere along the way, they'd forgotten how to be alive together.

"Your mother called," Sarah said, not looking up from her plate. "She wants us to come Sunday."

Marcus sat heavily. His mother still cooked like she was feeding a farmhand—roast beef that sat in your stomach for days, creamed spinach that appeared at every holiday meal regardless of who actually ate it. The same meals, the same conversations, the same life cycling endlessly.

"I can't," he said, surprising himself. "I have to work."

Sarah's fork paused. "It's your mother, Marcus."

"It's always something. Work, your parents, my parents. We're just... we're just dodging it, aren't we?"

"Dodging what?"

"This." He gestured vaguely at everything between them. "This whole situation. We're just pushing through because that's what you do. But I'm tired, Sarah. I'm so tired of pretending this is working."

Her face cracked. Something behind her eyes flickered—not anger, but something worse: recognition. She nodded slowly, setting down her fork.

"The bull in the china shop," she whispered. "That's what your dad always called you. Too honest for your own good."

Marcus reached across the table, his hand trembling slightly. "Maybe that's not such a bad thing."

The cafeteria buzzed around them, hundreds of people eating their last meals before returning to the grind, all of them waiting for something to change, someone to speak first. Outside, the autumn leaves fell like empires crumbling—one by one, inevitable and beautiful in their destruction.