The Last Supper

Margaret stood at the kitchen counter, her hands working by muscle memory as she chopped the spinach. Richard had always complained about the way she prepared it—too much garlic, not enough lemon—but tonight she cooked for herself alone. The divorce papers sat on the counter, signed and final, like a tombstone marking the death of twenty-three years.

Their orange tabby cat, Barnaby, wound through her legs, purring loudly as if he could fill the silence that had settled over the house like dust. Richard had wanted to leave Barnaby behind, said he was too old to adapt to a bachelor apartment. Margaret had agreed, though she suspected her ex-husband simply couldn't bear the reminder of everything they'd shared—the Sunday mornings in bed, the holidays, the way this small creature had witnessed their entire marriage.

She dropped the spinach into the pan, the green leaves wilting instantly in the heat. How many times had she prepared this exact meal? Richard called it "rabbit food" but ate it anyway, just as he'd stayed in their marriage long after love had curdled into resentment and indifference.

The phone buzzed. Richard's name lit up the screen. She let it ring.

Barnaby jumped onto the counter, knocking over the orange she'd placed there for dessert. It rolled across the floor, a small bright globe against the gray linoleum. She watched it go without moving to retrieve it.

"Well," she said to the cat, "at least one of us knows what it wants."

She served herself a portion of the spinach and sat at the table, alone with the sound of her own breathing and the distant city traffic. For the first time in years, she didn't have to consider anyone else's preferences, didn't have to modulate her volume or suppress her opinions. The freedom tasted like iron and possibility.

Tomorrow she would call a realtor. Tomorrow she would cancel the couples therapy appointments. Tomorrow she would figure out who she was without the weight of being Richard's wife.

But tonight, she simply ate her spinach while Barnaby watched from the windowsill, both of them finally, undeniably alone.