The Last Supper at Meridian

Elena smoothed the brim of her grandfather's fedora before slipping it onto the rack by the door. It had become a ritual these Friday nights—this dinner with Marcus, this pretend-normalcy in the wreckage of what they'd built together.

The restaurant's indoor pool shimmered blue beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, distorting the swimmers into something almost human. They'd been coming to Meridian for three years, back when Marcus still remembered their anniversary, back before the promotion that had turned him into someone she recognized only in flashes.

"You're quiet," Marcus said, pushing spinach around his plate with his fork. The vegetable had been his cholesterol-focused choice, though his arteries were probably the healthiest part of him now.

"Just thinking about Monday." Elena traced the watermark on the table. "The merger."

Marcus's jaw tightened. The company bull—his mentor, his predator—had orchestrated the whole thing. Elena would lose her department. Marcus would keep his title and his conscience, such as it was.

"It's business, El."

"Is it?" She met his eyes. "Like that dog you hit last month and kept driving?"

He'd told her drunk that night, crying over a scotch he couldn't taste. The dog had been a golden retriever, collar still on, someone's beloved something left bleeding in the road while Marcus hurried to a quarterly review.

"That's low."

"Is it?" Elena signaled for the check. Because here was the truth she'd been carrying like a stone in her throat: she'd applied to the competitor. They'd offered her everything—Marcus's job, his office, his view. The merger wasn't happening until Wednesday. She could still warn him.

The check arrived. Marcus reached for it automatically, credit card already in hand, never noticing she'd ordered only wine.

Elena watched him sign the receipt. In seven years of marriage, she'd never seen him cry sober.

She retrieved her hat from the rack. The fedora had belonged to the grandfather who'd walked out on his family when Elena was twelve. Some things, apparently, ran in the blood.

"Ready?" Marcus asked, not looking at her.

Elena thought about the dog. She thought about the competitor's offer sitting in her encrypted folder, the clause about non-disparagement, the garden-view apartment she'd secretly toured last Tuesday.

"Actually," she said, "could you take me home? I think I left something burning."