The Last Supper at Cisco's

The wilted spinach salad sat untouched between them, a metaphor for everything their marriage had become. Sarah pushed the dark green leaves around her plate, the restaurant's candlelight catching the silver charm on her wrist—a tiny bear David had given her at Coney Island twelve years ago, when they still believed in forever.

'You're not eating,' David said, his voice flat. He'd been staring at the coaxial cable snaking along the baseboard behind her, as if the answer to their unraveling lay hidden in its plastic casing.

'The spinach is bitter,' Sarah said, though bitterness wasn't the problem. The problem was the pyramid of unopened boxes in their living room—his things, her things, a monument to gradual separation that neither had acknowledged until last week, when David had casually mentioned he'd been staying at his brother's place for 'a few nights.'

He had the grace to look away. 'I didn't mean to...

'You never do.' She signaled the waiter for the check. 'Remember when we went swimming in the Hamptons that summer? The ocean was freezing, but you jumped in anyway, said it was better than feeling nothing.'

'That was six months ago.'

'Was it?' She laughed, a dry, cracked sound. 'Felt like a lifetime. We build these pyramids, David. Careers, houses, carefully curated lives. Then one day you wake up and realize you've buried yourself alive.'

The bear charm glinted as she reached for her wallet. Tomorrow, she'd pack. Tonight, she'd let herself remember how they'd once been brave enough to jump into freezing water together, even if they'd both emerged shivering and alone.