The Last Supper of Us

Margaret stood at the kitchen counter, chopping spinach with rhythmic, aggressive precision. The knife's thud against the cutting board was the only sound in the apartment besides David's relentless scrolling on his phone, the blue light casting his face in a ghostly pallor that made him look increasingly like the husband she used to know.

'You know,' she said, her voice tight, 'some couples talk during dinner prep.'

David didn't look up. 'Hm?'

Barnaby, their golden retriever, nudged her ankle with his wet nose, sensing the tension. She scratched behind his ears automatically, the motion practiced and familiar, unlike everything else between them lately.

She dumped the spinach into the pan. It wilted instantly, collapsing into itself like her patience.

'I'm leaving, David.'

The scrolling stopped. He finally looked up, eyes unfocused, like someone waking from a deep sleep. 'What?'

'You've been walking around like a zombie for months,' she said, turning off the stove. 'I can't live with someone who's already gone.'

He laughed, a dry, rusty sound. 'That's rich. Coming from the woman who's been emotionally checked out since Christmas.'

The accusation hit harder than she expected. She grabbed an orange from the fruit bowl, peeling it violently, the citrus spray stinging her eyes. Maybe he was right. Maybe they were both zombies now, hollowed out by years of compromise and disappointment, moving through motions they'd forgotten how to feel.

Barnaby whined, moving between them, sensing the end. She looked at this dog they'd adopted together during that brief, hopeful period when they still believed love could be resurrected with enough effort.

'I wanted it to work,' David said softly. 'I really did.'

'So did I,' she whispered. 'But wanting isn't enough anymore.'

She sat at the table, the wilted spinach congealing on her plate. Outside, the last orange light of sunset faded into darkness, leaving them both in shadow, finally seeing each other clearly for the first time in years.