The Last Supper at Marino's

Elena sat alone at Marino's, the same booth where Marcus had proposed twelve years ago. She ordered the spinach salad he'd always mocked—"rabbit food," he'd called it, kissing her forehead with that familiar condescension that felt like affection then and felt like something else entirely now.

The restaurant was mostly empty. A sad-eyed beagle mix at the neighboring table watched her with intense curiosity, belonging to the elderly man who'd once told Elena, "Dogs know when a marriage is ending before the people do."

Outside, rain streaked the windows like the tears she refused to cry anymore. Marcus was gone—not dead, just gone to Portland with the office manager, whose name Elena refused to learn. He'd taken the good dishes and the bear-themed artwork her mother had given them, leaving behind the coral-colored throw pillows and the orange winter coat Elena had bought for their anniversary trip to Montreal.

She remembered finding that coat in the closet last week, still smelling of his cologne, and how she'd pressed it to her face and sobbed for three hours until her neighbor's dog started barking.

"Your salad, ma'am."

The waiter's voice startled her. She looked up, suddenly aware of the hat she'd been wearing all day—Marcus's favorite fedora, stolen from his closet before he cleared out. She looked ridiculous. She looked like a woman refusing to let go.

Elena took a bite of spinach. It was bitter, exactly as she'd expected. Exactly as she needed.

The old man with the dog caught her eye and raised his glass in her direction—a silent toast to endings, to starting over, to the terrible courage it took to order lunch alone in a restaurant full of ghosts.

She ate every bite. Then she left the hat on the table, walked out into the rain, and finally felt like herself again.