The Last Supper at Antonio's

She was running late, again. The spinach salad wilted on the table, its greens darkening in the candlelight like bruised thoughts. Julian watched the restaurant entrance, his fingers tracing the rim of his wine glass. Thirty years of marriage, and somehow they'd arrived here—separate tables, same room.

When Clara finally appeared, she was different. The hair she'd worn in a careful bob since their wedding was gone, replaced by something jagged and uneven, chopped with what looked like kitchen scissors. She'd stopped dyeing it too. The silver shocked him more than the divorce papers had.

"You cut it," he said, standing automatically—the muscle memory of chivalry.

"Needed a change." She didn't smile. Her salad arrived, spinach glistening with too much oil. "Like the apartment. Like everything."

The waiter hovered. Julian ordered scotch. Clara asked for water.

"The kids know?" he asked.

"Told them yesterday. Maya asked if it was her fault. Ben asked about the dog."

The bull market had been good to Julian's firm, good enough that the prenup he'd resisted now felt like a sick joke. He remembered signing it at her father's insistence, both of them laughing at the absurdity—them, divorcing. They'd beaten the odds. They'd built something real.

"I met someone," Clara said quietly.

The scotch burned going down. "Who?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes."

"He's younger. He listens. He doesn't look through me like I'm furniture."

Julian thought of all the dinners where he'd checked his phone, the conversations he'd half-heard while mentally reviewing quarterly reports. The spinach in Clara's teeth went unnoticed, or he'd noticed and said nothing because it was easier. Always easier.

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it.

"Sorry doesn't fix anything. Sorry is just noise."

She stood, leaving half her salad. The check came. Julian reached for his wallet but she was already counting cash, exact change down to the penny—something else that had changed.

"Goodbye, Julian."

He watched her walk away, that strange new haircut catching the light. Outside, it started to rain. He ordered another scotch and finally understood what he'd been running from all these years: the work of being present.