The Last Supper

Mara stood at the kitchen counter, chopping spinach with mechanical precision. The green leaves fell like surrender flags onto the cutting board. Outside, lightning fractured the November sky, illuminating the moving boxes stacked in the hallway.

David would be home any minute. He'd expect dinner—their routine, his anchor. Three years of marriage reduced to Wednesday evenings and weekend getaways that never happened. The spinach was for the salad she'd promised to make, paired with oranges she'd sectioned earlier, their bright flesh contrasting with the wilted greens.

She checked her phone again. The text from this morning still glowed on the screen: *We need to talk.* Not *I love you.* Not *See you soon.* Three words that had unraveled everything before he'd even left for work.

The front door opened. His key in the lock had always sounded like arrival, now it sounded like departure.

"Smells good," David called, his coat dripping rain onto the mat she'd bought at that farmer's market in Vermont—the weekend he'd said he wanted to buy a vacation home there someday. Back when someday meant something.

Mara turned. He was running a hand through his wet hair, not meeting her eyes. That's when she knew.

"I made salad," she said. "Your favorite."

"Mara—"

"Eat first. Please."

They sat at the table they'd chosen together, arguing over wood versus glass until 2 AM. Now they ate in silence while lightning continued to tear apart the sky outside. The oranges tasted impossibly sweet, like something already gone. The spinach was bitter, like something that had stayed too long.

"I'm not coming back," David said finally, his fork pushing food around his plate. "After tonight."

Mara nodded. She'd known. She'd always known.

"Are you running away?" she asked, and they both heard the double meaning.

"No," he said. "Just running toward."

She let him have that. Let him have the narrative that there was something better, something worth this. Outside, the storm broke. Rain sheeted against the windows like the world was crying for both of them.

Mara stood and began clearing the table. Her movements were efficient, practiced. This was what she did now—what she would do alone. Chop spinach. Section oranges. Set tables. Eat. Survive.

"The lease," David said from the doorway. "It's up next month."

"I know."

"What will you do?"

Mara looked at her hands, at the orange stains under her fingernails, at the life she'd built like a house of cards in a windstorm.

"Keep making dinner," she said. "For one."