The Last Supper at Miller's

The dog arrived first — a golden retriever with knowing eyes, padding across the hardwood floors of Miller's apartment like he owned the place. He nudged my hand, and I found myself scratching behind his ears, avoiding the other guests' stares.

"She's late again," Miller said, checking his watch. He'd been a bear about punctuality since the promotion, all growling presence and territorial demands. I'd stopped mentioning how his work calls interrupted dinner, how he slept with his phone beside the pillow.

The door opened. Elena swept in wearing red — a fox if I'd ever seen one, all sharp angles and clever smiles. She'd been promoted over him last quarter. The air grew heavy with things unsaid.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, not sounding sorry at all. "Conference call ran over. You know how it is."

Miller's jaw tightened. "I do."

I watched them across the table — years of married silences between us, while she talked about quarterly projections and market expansion. I'd been bull-headed myself, refusing to see what was crumbling. The spinach sat cold on my plate, garden-to-table organic that neither of us had time to enjoy anymore.

"You two seem..." Elena paused, "distracted."

The dog whined, resting his head on my knee.

"Just tired," I said.

"Work's been intense," Miller added.

Elena's gaze moved between us, predatory and knowing. "That happens. When you stop making time for what matters."

I looked at my husband — really looked at him. His phone buzzed on the table. He didn't check it.

"The food's getting cold," Miller said suddenly, voice rough.

"So are we," I replied.

The dog exhaled, a long suffering sound. Elena's smile softened into something like pity. Outside, the city hummed with other people's dinners, other people's marriages, all the small deaths and survival instincts that kept us moving forward.

I speared a piece of spinach. It tasted like surrender.