The Last Supper

The storm broke while Eleanor was chopping spinach for the salad they wouldn't eat together. Lightning cracked the kitchen window, a sudden white flash that illuminated Richard's phone on the counter—again. He'd been texting someone in the bathroom for twenty minutes.

"Are you coming back?" she called, her voice steadier than she felt.

"Yeah, just finishing something," Richard shouted over the thunder. Something, not someone. The distinction mattered, or it didn't anymore.

Eleanor looked at the spinach—dark, wet leaves scattered across the cutting board like a fallen garden. She'd bought organic, extra fresh, because Richard had pretended to care about health. That was month two. Month six, he'd stopped pretending.

She remembered their first date, swimming in his building's pool at midnight. They'd been the only ones in the water, and Richard had kissed her against the pool wall, chlorine and red wine on his breath. The orange glow of the pool lights had made everything feel magical, possible. She'd mistaken his desperation for passion.

Now, Richard emerged from the bathroom, pale. "Eleanor, we need to talk."

"Talk away." She kept chopping.

"I met someone."

The knife paused. "Okay."

"It's been happening for a while. I didn't know how to—"

"To tell me you've been swimming in another pool?" Eleanor set down the knife. "That you found something newer, something fresher?"

"It's not like that."

"Isn't it?" She laughed bitterly. "You're like this spinach, Richard. You looked so good in the store, all crisp and promising. But you've been sitting in my crisper drawer for six months, and you're starting to rot."

Another flash of lightning split the sky. The power died. In the darkness, Eleanor heard Richard's shallow breathing. She realized she wasn't sad. She was just tired.

"You can go," she said. "Take your phone. Take the spinach if you want—it suits you now."

She felt him hesitate, then his keys jingled. The front door opened and closed. The storm howled outside, and Eleanor stood in the dark kitchen, finally alone, finally whole.