The Last Text

Margaret stood before the open refrigerator at 2:17 AM, the blue light washing over her face like cold water. On the middle shelf sat a Tupperware container of wilted spinach, five days past its prime — much like her marriage.

Her iPhone vibrated against the granite counter, the screen lighting up with a notification that made her stomach drop. Another message from *Him*.

She'd been so careful. Cleared her browser history. Used a different phone for calls. But she'd forgotten about the iPad they shared — the one David used to read the news each morning while eating breakfast. The one that had synced her iMessage conversations across all Apple devices, including the iPad currently sitting on their kitchen table.

The goldfish in the bowl on the windowsink — David's anniversary gift from three years ago — swam to the surface, its mouth opening and closing in silent judgment. Margaret had always hated that fish. Its name was Bull, because David said it had the stubbornness of one. The thing refused to die, despite Margaret's occasional neglect. It just kept swimming, oblivious to the slow decay of everything around it.

"You're being ridiculous," she whispered to herself, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her certainty.

The spinach container leaked green water onto her wrist as she lifted it, dripping onto the floor like something wounded. She remembered David's voice last weekend: *"You've been distant lately, Mags. Is everything okay?"* She'd deflected, blamed work stress, turned away when he tried to hold her in bed. Now she wondered if he'd known. If he'd seen the messages and was waiting for her to confess.

The iPhone buzzed again. She didn't look. She already knew what it said.

*When are you leaving him?*

The goldfish pressed its nose against the glass, its tiny eye staring at her with an ancient, alien intelligence. Bull, she thought. The stubborn persistence of living things. Of love. Of betrayal.

Margaret closed the refrigerator door, plunging the kitchen back into darkness. The spinach slipped from her fingers, hitting the floor with a wet slap. She left it there.

She picked up her iPhone, scrolled through the messages one last time, then typed three words and pressed send.

*It's done.*

Upstairs, David shifted in his sleep. Margaret stood in the dark kitchen and listened to her marriage end, while behind her, Bull the goldfish continued his endless circles, swimming through water that had grown stale with waiting.