The Last Supper

The coaxial cable lay coiled on the kitchen counter like a dead snake, its silver connector catching the afternoon light. Forty-seven years old and David was finally cutting the cord, though Elena suspected it had less to do with streaming services and more to do with the way he'd been avoiding her gaze across the dinner table for three months.

"It's just practical," he said, not meeting her eyes. "We can watch everything online."

"Everything except us," she replied, the words out before she could stop them.

Elena turned back to the stove, where spinach wilted in the pan, releasing that familiar earthy smell that had always comforted her. She'd been cooking with spinach three times a week since his scare last winter—the minor heart palpitations that had sent them both to the emergency department at 2 AM, the monitor beeping, the fear that had settled into their marriage like dust.

The vitamin organizer sat on the windowsill, its plastic compartments filled with precisely measured doses of their new life together. Vitamin D for bone health. Omega-3 for his heart. Magnesium for her anxiety. The little pills had become their morning ritual, swallowed with coffee and silence, each capsule a promise to live longer, better, safer.

But somewhere along the way, they'd forgotten how to live at all.

"You don't have to cook spinach again," David said, his voice quiet. "The doctor said my levels are fine now."

Elena stirred the pan, watching the leaves grow darker, softer, more pliable. "I know. I just—I thought you liked it."

"I liked that you were taking care of me." He finally looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time in months. "But Elena, I'm not sick anymore. And we can't keep living like I'm about to break."

The cable still sat between them on the counter, a physical manifestation of everything they'd avoided saying. She realized then that she'd been so focused on keeping him alive, she'd forgotten to keep them alive.

"What do you want?" she asked.

"I want us back," he said. "Even if that means risking something."

Elena turned off the stove. The spinach was perfect now—tender, seasoned, safe. She scooped it onto two plates instead of one, added the grilled chicken she'd prepared, carried everything to the table where the cable waited like a wedding present they'd forgotten to open.

"Eat," she said, sitting across from him. "And afterward, we can decide together. About the cable. About the vitamins. About everything."

David smiled, really smiled, and for the first time in months, Elena felt something shift between them—something like hope, or maybe just the beginning of letting go of the fear that had been holding them both hostage.