The Last Supper in Sharm

Sarah watched Michael arrange the supplements on the restaurant table in descending order of height—a pathetic little pyramid of hope. Vitamin D for his mood, B-complex for energy, zinc for fertility. The elephant in the room was shaped like a bull and wore a wedding ring.

"It's a legitimate opportunity," Michael said, not meeting her eyes. "The market for wellness products is exploding. We could be debt-free by Christmas."

Outside the window, palm fronds stirred in the desert wind. They'd come to Egypt to save their marriage, or at least that's what they'd told her sister. Three years of trying to conceive. Two rounds of IVF. One miscarriage at eleven weeks. And now this—his newest get-rich-quick scheme, a "ground-floor opportunity" that smelled suspiciously like every other pyramid scheme he'd dumped their savings into.

A stray cat wound through the legs of the tables, emaciated but graceful. Sarah watched it leap onto a neighboring table and steal a piece of pita bread from an unsuspecting tourist. At least someone was getting fed.

"Michael," she said, her voice steady. "I'm forty-two years old. I don't want to be rich by Christmas if it means I'm still married to a man who treats our life savings like casino chips."

He finally looked at her. His eyes were tired. "You think I don't know that? You think I don't hear what your sister says about me? I'm trying to build something for us. For the family we're going to have."

"The family we're not having," she said. "The one that might never happen."

Silence stretched between them, taut and terrible. A waiter appeared, refilling their water glasses with practiced efficiency. In the distance, the pyramids rose from the sand like ancient dreams, monuments to men who thought they could live forever.

Sarah reached across the table and took his hand, palm against palm. His skin was dry, his fingers trembling slightly.

"I'm not taking the vitamins anymore," she said. "And we're not investing in your bullshit scheme. But I'm not leaving you yet. That's the truth I have to offer."

Michael squeezed her hand, tears standing in his eyes. "It's not much, is it?"

"No," she said, watching the cat settle beneath a neighboring table to clean its paws. "But it's something. It's a start."

Outside, the wind picked up, carrying dust from the desert across the red-gold sky. Tomorrow they would figure out what came next. Tonight, they would eat dinner and pretend it was enough.