The Last Supper

Marcus stood at the kitchen counter, chopping spinach with mechanical precision. The knife rhythmically diced through the vibrant leaves, his mind somewhere else entirely—somewhere far from this apartment, this marriage, this life.

Sarah watched him from the doorway, her arms crossed. "You haven't said three words since you got home."

Marcus didn't look up. "Long meeting."

"Every meeting is long now. You come home and you're just... gone. Like you're operating on autopilot." She stepped closer, her voice softening. "My husband has become a zombie."

The knife paused. Spinach-covered hands gripped the counter's edge. That word again—her new favorite description of him since the merger. Three rounds of layoffs. The team he'd built over five years, dismantled in three months. He survived, but something essential had been carved out of him.

He reached for the water glass, his fingers leaving green smudged fingerprints on the rim. The water was warm, flat, like everything tasted these days.

"I'm trying, Sarah."

"Are you?" She moved to the refrigerator, pulling out ingredients with aggressive efficiency. "Because trying looks like something different than this. Than whatever this is." She slammed an orange onto the cutting board. "Remember when we used to cook together? Actually cook?"

Marcus looked down at the spinach, now chopped into uniform confetti. He remembered weekend mornings at the farmers' market, their competitive pasta-making nights, the way they'd used to get flour on each other's faces, laughing. Now their kitchen was just another room where they happened to be in proximity.

"They eliminated David's position today," he said quietly. "Eight years. Gone in a five-minute call."

Sarah's hand stopped mid-zest. The orange peel curled in her fingers. She turned to him really seeing him for the first time in weeks—the hollowed cheeks, the shirt that hung loosely, the exhaustion that went beyond sleep deprivation.

"Marcus."

"Every morning I walk past his empty desk and think: that's me. I'm just waiting for the call."

She crossed to him, her arms wrapping around his waist from behind. He felt her breath against his back, smelled the orange zest on her fingers—sharp, bright, alive.

"Then let them call," she whispered. "We'll sell this apartment. Move somewhere smaller. I'll take the promotion. You'll figure it out. But stop dying by degrees. I can't watch it happen."

Marcus set down the knife. He turned in her arms and for the first time in months, really looked at her. The spinach sat forgotten on the counter. The water glass warmed his palm. The orange scent filled the space between them.

"I don't know how to be anything else anymore."

"Start by staying. Really staying. Not just your body."

He pressed his forehead against hers. "I'm still here. Somewhere."

"Then find your way back. I'll wait."

Outside, the city hummed with indifferent energy. Inside, two people held each other in a kitchen full of half-made dinner, neither one letting go first.