The Last Supper at Tito's

The papaya sat on the table between them like a grenade with the pin halfway pulled. Elena picked at her spinach salad, watching Marcus's reflection in the restaurant window as he paced outside, phone pressed to his ear.

"He's not coming back, is he?" Sarah asked, not looking up from her wine.

"He said he'd be five minutes," Elena said, though they both knew she was lying. The same way she'd been lying for three years about the late nights, the sudden business trips, the way Marcus's phone always seemed to face down on the bedside table like a guilty secret.

The truth was, she'd been swimming in denial so long she'd grown gills. Learned to breathe underwater, to pretend the burning in her lungs was normal.

"You know," Sarah said, pushing her plate away, "Janice told me last week that Marcus was seen at that bull-riding competition in Austin. Said he looked right at home."

Elena nodded slowly. She'd found the ticket stub in his pocket two months ago, crumpled like a confession he couldn't quite bring himself to make. Bull-riding. Of course. The thing she'd begged him not to do after his brother broke his neck falling off one in '19. The thing they'd fought about until the walls shook.

"Did you ever think about why you stayed?" Sarah asked gently.

Elena reached across the table and straightened Sarah's hat—a vintage fedora that had seen better decades, much like their marriage. "Because sometimes love isn't about swimming toward shore. Sometimes it's about learning to breathe in the deep end."

Outside, Marcus ended his call. He stood there for a long moment, hand on the door handle, before walking away down the street. Elena watched him go, felt something break inside her that had been held together by desperation and hope for too long.

"More wine?" Sarah asked.

"Please," Elena said. "And let's never come back to this restaurant again."

The papaya continued to ripen on the table between them, sweetening with abandonment.