The Last Supper

The spinach wilted in the pan, releasing that sharp, metallic scent that always reminded Elena of Monday mornings. She watched David unpack the grocery bags with deliberate precision—oranges rolling across the counter, their bright skins too cheerful for what she was about to say.

"I need you to sign the cable transfer," David said, his back to her. "Monday's the cutoff."

Elena pressed the wooden spoon into the spinach, watching steam rise. Six years of Sunday dinners, and this was how it ended—not with screaming, not with thrown plates, but with paperwork and transfer deadlines. The apartment felt enormous around her, every corner holding a ghost of something they'd promised each other. The way he'd kissed her in this kitchen when they moved in, both of us giddy with champagne and bad decisions. The night she'd sat on these tiles crying after her promotion fell through, his hand warm on her back.

"You're really doing it," she said, not a question.

David turned, and the look in his eyes—the sheer exhaustion—broke her more than any shouting match could have. "We've been bears in hibernation for two years, El. Just sleepwalking through the seasons."

An orange escaped his hand and rolled toward the edge of the counter. He caught it without looking, the movement so familiar it hurt.

"Is that what we were?" Elena turned off the burner. "Just... waiting out winter?"

"We were good once," he said softly. "Then we were comfortable. Then we were just... roommates who happened to love each other once, a long time ago."

The spinach glistened with oil and garlic, vibrant and green and alive. She should have been hungry. Instead, she felt hollowed out, a house after the furniture's been taken away.

"Monday," she repeated. "You'll come by for the cable transfer?"

"Monday," he agreed.

He placed the oranges in the bowl, their bright skins catching the last of the evening light. Neither of them reached for the food. The kitchen filled with the silence of things that needed to be said and wouldn't be, the quiet roar of a decade ending not with a bang but with the cooling of food on the stove.