The Last Supper

The spinach lay wilted on the plate, a discarded garnish like our marriage. Ellen pushed it around with her fork, the metallic click against china the only sound in the restaurant. Twenty years of dinners, and we'd run out of things to say three years ago.

"The cable bill came again," she said, not looking up. "It's ridiculous what we're paying for channels we never watch."

I nodded. "I'll call them. Cut the package."

We both knew I wouldn't. The bill was the closest thing to communication we had anymore—a monthly reminder that we existed in the same house, shared the same life, the same slow erosion of everything we'd promised each other at twenty-two.

The restaurant's television above the bar flashed silently. A financial analyst gestured at a graph, the red line plunging like something thrown from a roof. "The market bull has lost its steam," the caption read.

"Remember when we thought about investing?" Ellen asked. "That trip to Vermont, the bed and breakfast?"

"That was years ago."

"Six years. Before the promotion. Before you stopped coming home."

I reached for my wine, something expensive and red. "The job—"

"The job doesn't require twelve-hour days, Marcus. It requires you to want to be somewhere else."

She stood up then, leaving her half-finished meal. The spinach on her plate was still vibrant, organic, locally sourced—everything our life wasn't anymore. I watched her walk out, the bell above the door chiming like an afterthought.

The check came. I paid with the corporate card. At home, the cable would be humming through the walls, charging us for the privilege of not watching it together. The market would bull and bear and mean nothing. And somewhere, spinach would continue growing in fields tended by hands that actually touched the earth, actually lived in it.

I signaled for another glass of wine. The waiter nodded, understanding without asking. Some failures require a witness, and others require only the quiet complicity of strangers.