The Last Supper

Elena stood before the bathroom mirror, pulling a silver hair from her temple. Three strands this morning already. At forty-two, she wasn't supposed to be going silver this fast, but then, she wasn't supposed to be spending her anniversary evening at a gas station motel two hours from home, either.

Downstairs, Richard watched her through the open door, his expression that particular brand of bull-headed she'd fallen for sixteen years ago—thick jaw set, eyes fixed on some invisible horizon, refusing to acknowledge what was right in front of him. The same expression he'd worn when she told him she wanted kids. When she told him she was lonely. When she'd said his name like a question three nights ago, and he'd just turned away.

"They're still airing the interview," he said, nodding toward the television where cable news flickered across his face—his face, now strangely unfamiliar. "Market analyst says we're looking at a bull run next quarter. Your restaurant might survive after all."

My restaurant. Not ours. Never theirs.

She placed the silver hair on the counter, precise as an artifact. "I closed it, Richard. This morning. Before I drove here."

He blinked. The bull in him—that stubborn, charging-forward denial—stumbled. "What?"

"I signed the papers. The lease, the equipment, everything. It's gone."

He laughed, hollow and sharp. "You're joking. You don't just—after everything we—"

"'We'?" The word tasted like ash. "You haven't set foot in the kitchen in two years. You haven't touched me in six. You come home at midnight smelling of scotch and someone else's perfume and you think we built something?"

His face crumbled. All that bullish certainty, gone.

"Elena, please. I can fix this. The market's turning—"

"No more markets," she said, stepping into the room, letting herself look at him really look. "No more running. I'm done waiting for you to decide I'm worth the effort."

He reached for her hand, his fingers cold. She didn't pull away. She just stood there, letting him touch her, feeling nothing at all.

"I'm going back to Chicago," she said. "My sister's couch, until I figure out what comes next. Alone."

"You can't just—"

"Watch me."

She picked up her bag, her keys, her phone. Left the silver hair on the counter, bright and terrible as a wire. Let him find it later. Let him wonder how long she'd been pulling them out, counting them, naming them like days she'd stayed too long.