The Last Supper

The spinach lay limp on Marcus's plate, a wilted metaphor for their marriage. Elena watched him push the greens around with his fork, the silver clinking against ceramic like a countdown she wasn't ready to hear.

"I got the promotion," he said finally, not looking up.

Outside, lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the momentary triumph on his face before darkness reclaimed the kitchen. Their golden retriever, Barnaby, whined softly under the table, sensing the tremor in the air that had nothing to do with the storm.

"Chicago," she whispered. It wasn't a question.

"They want me there by Monday."

Elena reached across the table, her fingers finding the gray streak at his temple—hair that had appeared during the merger negotiations, or maybe during the months they'd stopped speaking in anything but logistics and obligations. She remembered twining that same hair around her finger their first night together, twenty years ago in a walk-up apartment where ambition had smelled like cheap wine and possibility.

"What about us?" she asked.

Marcus's phone buzzed on the counter—his boss, probably, congratulations disguised as more work. He didn't move to answer it. "What about us, El? We've been roommates for three years. You're teaching at that community college, secretly applying to MFA programs you think I don't know about. I'm killing myself for partnerships I stopped wanting a decade ago."

The spinach was cold now. Barnaby rested his chin on her knee.

"You knew about the applications?"

"I found the rejection letters. The ones you hid in your gardening box."

Lightning struck closer, thunder rattling the windows.

"Go to Chicago," she said, something releasing in her chest that felt like grief and relief intertwined.

"And you?"

Elena stood up, clearing their plates. "I think I'll finally write that novel. The one about the couple who discovers they're strangers in their own marriage."

Marcus laughed—a startled, genuine sound she hadn't heard in years. "That's not a love story."

"No," she said, opening the back door to let the dog out into the rain. "But it might be the truest thing I've ever written."