The Last Supper

The spinach lay wilting in the colander, a pathetic confession of the evening's ambition. Elena had planned to cook—the way they used to, before the silence grew thick enough to choke on—but now the leaves glistened with condensation from the refrigerator, mocking her.

"You're not eating," Marcus said. His plate was clean. Always efficient.

"Not hungry."

"You haven't been hungry for weeks."

The accusation hung there, suspended like the dust motes in the late afternoon light. Their apartment had become a museum of small deaths: the unread books, the unwatered plants, the unspoken words accumulating like sediment.

Tomorrow he was leaving. Not for a business trip, not temporarily. Leaving.

"I went swimming today," she said suddenly.

Marcus looked up. "You hate swimming."

"I know. I went to the community center. I got in the lane and I just... swam. Back and forth. Until my arms burned and my lungs screamed and I couldn't tell which way was up anymore." She paused. "For a minute, I thought about what it would feel like to stop fighting it. To just let the water take me."

His fork clattered against his plate. "Elena—"

"Not like that. God, Marcus, everything is so literal with you." She pushed her chair back, the sound violent in the quiet room. "I meant stopping fighting US. This thing we've been doing. This endless, exhausting tread of keeping something alive that maybe died years ago and we were too stubborn to bury."

From the window, an orange glow seeped across the floorboards—the construction barrier on the corner, blinking its rhythmic warning. CAUTION. The word pulsed through their kitchen like a heartbeat.

Marcus stood slowly. His movements were careful, measured. The way they'd both learned to be around each other's fragile edges. "I leased the apartment because I thought you'd be happier without me. Not because I stopped loving you."

The spinach continued its slow, sad collapse in the colander. Somewhere outside, the orange light kept blinking its warning.

"That's the tragedy, isn't it?" Elena whispered. "We can love something to death."