The Last Supper

The goldfish swam in lazy circles around its bowl, oblivious to the fact that it was the last remaining tie to Marcus. Elena watched it through tears that had stopped falling an hour ago, when she'd packed his third suitcase this year.

"I can't keep doing this," she'd said at the door, and he'd nodded, kissing her forehead like she was a child being reassured about a nightmare. "I know," he'd said, and left anyway.

Now she stood in their kitchen—their kitchen, still hers for another two weeks—surrounded by the ingredients for the dinner they'd planned to cook together. Papaya ripening on the counter. Fresh spinach wilting slightly in the colander. Their weekly attempt at pretending they were the kind of couple who cooked healthy meals together, who talked about their days instead of circling each other like sharks.

Their dog, Buster, nudged her ankle with his wet nose. He'd been Marcus's dog originally—a rescue from that terrible year before they'd met—but now he looked at her with worried eyes, as if dogs could sense when a life was unravelling.

"It's just us now, buddy," she whispered, scratching behind his ears.

The papaya was ripe enough to eat, its sweet-flesh scent filling the kitchen. She'd bought it because Marcus had mentioned once that he'd never tried it, and Elena had made it her mission to introduce him to new foods, new experiences, new versions of himself. The spinach was for a salad she'd never make.

She thought about calling him. She thought about not calling him. She thought about how three years could dissolve like sugar in warm water, leaving behind only the ghost of sweetness. The goldfish—Marcus's impulse buy from a county fair—would probably die within the month. She knew nothing about fish care.

Elena picked up the papaya and cut into it, juice running down her wrist. She took a bite, standing alone in her kitchen that was slowly becoming just a kitchen. Buster sat at her feet, waiting. The goldfish swam on, indifferent to the architecture of human heartbreak.

"We'll be fine," she told the dog, and believed it for exactly three seconds before the truth settled in: they would be, eventually. That was the terrible part. You always were.