The Last Supper

Emma pushed the spinach around her plate, watching the wilted leaves bleed green into the pool of balsamic vinegar. Across the small kitchen table, Marcus watched her with that same patient expectancy that had defined the last seven years of their marriage.

"You're not eating," he said, not quite an accusation.

"Not hungry."

The goldfish bowl on the windowsill caught the last light of evening, casting wobbly reflections across the table. Inside, Neptune—named by Marcus in a moment of freshman-year whimsy—swam his endless circuits, mouth opening and closing in silent perpetuity. Emma had bought the replacement fish three times without Marcus noticing. They all looked the same, orange and forgettable, swimming their small lives in circles.

"My mother called," Marcus said. "About the anniversary dinner."

"And?"

"She wants to know if we're still coming."

Emma finally looked at him. Really looked. The softening at his jawline, the way his hair had started thinning at the temples, the small scar above his left eyebrow from where she'd thrown a picture frame during their worst fight. They'd made love on the floor afterward, desperate and clawing, as if violence could be transmuted into passion through sheer force of will.

Outside, lightning split the sky, illuminating the kitchen in harsh white flash. A moment later, thunder rattled the windows.

"We need to talk," she said.

Marcus reached across the table, his hand covering hers. His palm was warm, familiar. "I know."

"You do?"

"You've been packing boxes when you think I'm at work. I found the lease application in your purse. I'm not stupid, Em."

She pulled her hand away. "Then why haven't you said anything?"

"Because I'm hoping you'll change your mind. Because every time I almost bring it up, I remember how you looked when Neptune died—that first one—and I think maybe we just keep replacing things until something sticks."

"Fish aren't marriages, Marcus."

"Aren't they?" His voice cracked, just once. "Swimming in circles, forgetting everything every seven seconds, convincing ourselves the water is new?"

The spinach had gone cold. The goldfish swam on, mouth opening and closing, saying nothing.

"I'm not coming back this time," she said softly.

Lightning struck again, closer this time. The kitchen lights flickered and died, leaving them in darkness illuminated only by the storm outside and the faint glow of the aquarium, where an orange fish continued its endless journey around a small glass world that had never, not once, been big enough for both of them.