The Last Supper of Spinach

Emma sat across from Marcus in their apartment that now felt too large for two people. His orange hair—once the feature that had first made her laugh at that dive bar in Williamsburg—was thinning at the temples, revealing more scalp than either of them wanted to acknowledge.

"You're not eating your spinach," she said, gesturing to his plate.

Marcus poked at the wilted greens. "I'm thirty-eight, Emma. I don't need my mother to monitor my vegetable intake."

The vitamins sat on the counter behind her—his new collection, ever since the cancer scare that had turned out to be a benign cyst. Vitamin D, Omega-3, B-complex. A small fortune in capsules that promised longevity they both knew was a lie.

"I'm trying to be supportive," she said. "That's all."

"You're trying to fix things you can't fix." His voice cracked. "Like you always do."

She remembered finding him in the bathroom three months ago, scissors in hand, clumps of orange hair in the sink. He'd been crying—the first time she'd seen him cry in seven years together. The cyst wasn't life-threatening, but it had cracked something open inside him that no amount of vitamins could seal.

"The spinach isn't about the cyst," she said quietly. "It's about staying. I'm not going anywhere, Marcus."

He looked at her then, really looked at her, for the first time in weeks. The sunset through the window turned everything orange—their plates, his hair, the tears on his cheeks.

"You might," he said. "Someday you might."

"Not today." She reached across the table and took his hand. "Eat your spinach. Take your vitamins. Let's just be here, okay?"

He ate. They both did. And for that moment, it was enough.