The Last Supper

The spinach lay wilted on Maya's plate, a casualty of the conversation she'd been avoiding for three months. Daniel's phone buzzed against the oak table, and he didn't apologize. He just checked it.

"It's work," he said, already looking away.

Outside, the neighbor's dog began its evening ritual—a series of barks that sounded increasingly like accusations. Maya had always found it annoying. Now, she wondered if the dog knew something she didn't.

She remembered their honeymoon in Key West, how they'd gotten drunk on cheap rum and paid a woman on a beach to read their palms. The old woman had traced the lines on Maya's hand and said, "You will love deeply, and you will lose what you cannot hold."

Daniel had laughed. "See? She says we're going to make it."

The old woman had squeezed Maya's fingers. "That is not what I said."

Now, Maya pressed her own palm flat against the table, studying the lines that had supposedly foretold this moment. The life line, the heart line, the fate line—all just skin creases that meant nothing until you needed them to.

"Did you hear me?" Daniel asked.

She blinked. The spinach was still there, wilting into nothing. "No."

"I said, maybe we should skip the therapist next week. Save the money."

The dog outside fell silent. The air between them did too.

"Actually," Maya said, standing up, "I think we should skip everything."

She took her plate to the sink. The spinach slid off into the garbage, and for some reason, that small movement felt like the end of everything.

"What does that mean?" Daniel asked, and for the first time in months, he put his phone down.

Maya turned back to him, palm still tingling where she'd pressed it against the table. "It means I'm not coming back."

The dog began to bark again, like it had been waiting all this time for someone to finally say the obvious thing.