The Last Supper on Oak Street

Elena stared at the wilted spinach on her plate, pushing it around with her fork. Richard was talking about his promotion again, his voice droning on about corporate pyramids and management structures, but she'd stopped listening months ago.

'You're not even hearing me, are you?' Richard said, suddenly quiet.

'The cat died yesterday,' she said.

He froze. 'What?'

'Mittens. I found her under the porch. She looked peaceful.' Elena's voice was flat, devoid of the tears she'd cried earlier that afternoon.

Richard's expression shifted—grief, then annoyance, then something like calculation. 'We can get another one. Elena, listen, this partnership track—'

'You never even liked her.' Elena stood up, her chair scraping violently against the hardwood. 'You called her a useless furball. You said she was just another mouth to feed, like the goldfish you forgot to change the water for until it floated to the top.'

'That was three years ago—'

'Janet from accounting called,' she said, cutting him off. 'She asked if you were coming to her place tonight for "drinks." She mentioned you'd been texting about how you needed to decompress after all those late nights.'

Richard's face went pale. The狡猾 little fox, he'd called Janet once,admiring her cunning during a merger. Now the descriptor hung between them like a weapon.

'She's just a friend,'

'She's twenty-six, Richard. She thinks your stories about corporate pyramids are fascinating.' Elena walked to the bedroom, began pulling clothes from the closet. 'You're not the only one who can be strategic.'

The spinach on her plate remained uneaten. Their marriage, like so many things, had withered gradually—neglect disguised as stability, compromise disguised as partnership. She'd thought they were building something together, but she'd just been another level in his pyramid all along.

'Elena, please—'

'Don't.' She shouldered her bag. 'I'm done being your demographic.'

The door clicked shut behind her. Outside, the neighborhood was quiet, suburban houses sitting like monuments to people who'd made different choices. Elena walked toward her car, leaving behind the spinach, the dead cat, the goldfish memory, the husband who'd forgotten how to see her. Somewhere, a real fox slipped through the backyard fences—wild, alive, and unowned.