The Last Supper at Giza's

The spinach stuck between Marcus's teeth felt like a metaphor for their entire marriage—something small, irritating, impossible to dislodge without making a scene. Elena watched him chew, the green fleck flashing with each open-mouthed laugh, and thought about how seven years had reduced them to this: dinner at Giza's newest overpriced restaurant, both of them performing happiness for an audience of none.

"You know what this place needs?" Marcus said, gesturing with his wine glass. "A pyramid scheme. Literally. Build a customer base by promising eternal life, upsell them on sarcophagus packages."

Elena's smile tightened. She'd stopped finding his corporate wit charming around year three, when his jokes started sounding like PowerPoint presentations.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Julian: *Are we still on for tomorrow?* The question hung in the air like smoke, though Marcus couldn't see it. Julian, with his quiet intensity and the way he actually listened when she spoke. Julian, who made her feel seen instead of managed.

"You're doing that thing," Marcus said. "That sphinx face. Silent. Judgmental. What's the riddle, Elena? What's the answer I'm supposed to guess?"

Outside, a stray cat—skinny, battle-scarred—leaped onto their windowsill, watching them with yellow eyes. Elena felt a sudden kinship with it. Wild things always knew when something was dying.

"I'm leaving," she said. The words came out easier than she'd expected. "After New Year's."

Marcus's laugh died. "What?"

"The apartment. The marriage. All of it." She took a breath. "There's no riddle, Marcus. That's the thing you never understood. Sometimes things just end."

The spinach was still there, mocking her, this tiny green witness to the way everything falls apart—not with explosions or dramatic gestures, but quietly, over wine and bad jokes, while the world keeps turning and cats watch from windowsills, and somewhere, someone waits for you to finally choose yourself.