The Last Supper

Margaret stood at the kitchen counter, mechanically chopping spinach for the salad Richard would pretend to eat. Their anniversary dinner. Twenty years of careful silences and unspoken resentments, seasoned with the occasional explosive argument about money or his mother or why they never went swimming in that lake house they'd never bought.

"You're blocking the light," Richard said, not looking up from his phone. His orange tie was slightly crooked—a small rebellion against his own fastidiousness.

"Sorry." She moved aside. "Did you feed the cat?"

"Barnaby? Yes. Though I'm not sure why we bother. He hates us."

Barnaby, their elderly orange tabby, wound around Margaret's ankles, purring despite Richard's assessment. The cat was the only living thing in this house that still touched her without calculation.

They sat down to wilted spinach and overcooked salmon. Richard's phone buzzed. He checked it, a flicker of something—relief? disappointment?—crossing his face.

"Happy anniversary," Margaret said, her voice hollow.

"Right. Yes. Twenty years." He finally met her eyes. "Margaret, I've been thinking—"

"I know. Me too."

"About the house. And Barnaby. And—well, everything."

She nodded. They'd been having this conversation for three years, but tonight felt different. The air between them had grown thin, translucent, like ice about to break.

"I met someone," Richard said quietly.

Margaret closed her eyes. Something unclenched in her chest—a muscle she hadn't realized she'd been holding for two decades.

"I know," she said. "Her name is Sarah, isn't it?"

He froze. "How did you—"

"Richard. You changed your cologne six months ago. You started swimming again. You come home late smelling like chlorine and expensive perfume. I'm not an idiot. I'm just tired."

Barnaby jumped onto the table, knocking over Richard's wine. They both stared at the spreading stain, a dark puddle on the white tablecloth.

"I should probably go," Richard said.

"Yes," said Margaret. "You probably should."

He stood up, then hesitated. "What about—"

"I'll keep the house. And Barnaby. You can keep the lake house fund."

Richard nodded once, gathered his coat, and walked out the door. Margaret sat alone with the cat and the ruined anniversary dinner, finally, wonderfully, at peace.