The Last Supper at Solstice

Elena smoothed the velvet **hat** she'd worn to her father's funeral three months ago, the brim still carrying the faint scent of rain and incense. The restaurant where she'd agreed to meet Marcus was exactly the kind of place they used to mock together—overpriced, pretentious, filled with people performing the rituals of a life they couldn't afford.

He arrived wearing the same coat she'd bought him for Christmas the year before, when they still believed in the mythology of forever. The **spinach** ravioli arrived at their table, green and vulnerable in its cream sauce, and Elena thought of how she'd stopped cooking meals that required more than one pan. What was the point of preparing something thoughtful for an audience of one?

"You look tired," Marcus said, and the accusation hung between them like smoke. He was right. She was tired of **running**—running from conversations, running from empty rooms, running from the realization that at thirty-seven, she'd built a life that could be dismantled in a single afternoon.

"I saw Sarah yesterday," he continued, twisting his wedding band. "She's doing the single mom thing. Says it's exhausting but she finally feels like herself."

A **fox** darted through Elena's memory—Sarah's wedding day, how drunk she'd gotten, how she'd whispered that marriage was just a bear trap you walked into willingly. The image of jaws snapping shut had seemed hilarious then, at twenty-five, with everyone's teeth still intact.

"I can't **bear** this conversation," Elena said quietly, and Marcus's fork clattered against his plate. She wasn't talking about Sarah. She was talking about the way he still looked at her like she might change her mind, like the past three months of separate apartments and separate lives were merely a misunderstanding they could resolve if they just tried harder.

"Elena—"

"No. Listen. I loved you. I loved us. But love isn't supposed to feel like you're holding your breath underwater, waiting for permission to surface."

She placed enough cash to cover both meals on the table, leaving her untouched ravioli congealing in its sauce. Outside, the city was gray and indifferent, and she pulled her hat lower against the wind. For the first time in months, the thought of going home to her empty apartment felt like possibility rather than punishment. Some things had to break so you could finally see the shape of what came next.