The Last Supper

Maya sat alone at the kitchen island, staring at the wilted spinach in her colander. Three years of marriage, reduced to a bag of greens she'd forgotten to use before their trip. David had left this morning—no bags, no dramatic goodbye, just a note that said he needed time to figure out who he was without her.

Outside, the security light flickered. Something moved in the yard—a fox, its coat the color of rusted iron, pausing beside the garden she'd planted in spring. The fox watched her through the glass with ancient, knowing eyes. She'd seen it before, usually around dusk, but never this close. It seemed to be waiting for something.

David had been like that too, she realized. Waiting. Always waiting for the other shoe to drop, for her to become someone else, for life to finally begin. Meanwhile she'd been busy making spinach salads and paying the mortgage and pretending that happiness was something you could schedule between Pilates and performance reviews.

The fox trotted away, vanishing behind the orange tree that David's mother had given them as a housewarming gift. The fruit hung heavy and unpicked, a small riot of color against the gray evening. They'd planned to make marmalade together, one of those couples activities that felt meaningful in theory but never materialized in practice.

Her phone buzzed. A text from her boss: "Need that presentation by morning."

Maya stared at the screen, then at the spinach, then at the empty spot across from her where David usually sat. Something loosened in her chest, a knot she hadn't realized was there. The fox returned, this time with something in its mouth—a mouse, maybe. The circle of things, of hunger and survival and moving forward.

She dumped the spinach into the trash, turned off her phone, and opened the back door. The night air smelled of rain and possibility. For the first time in three years, the waiting was over.