The Rotting Bundle

The spinach had been in the crisper drawer for three weeks. Every time Maya opened the refrigerator, she told herself she would make a salad. That was the kind of woman she wanted to be—someone who ate greens and took care of herself. Instead, she watched the leaves turn slimy black, a small betrayal she couldn't bring herself to clean up.

Her iPhone buzzed on the counter. Unknown number. Again.

She didn't need to answer to know who it was. The cable bill was still in her name, still autopaying from her account every month because changing it would require calling customer service, and customer service would require speaking, and speaking would require admitting that she was paying seventy-nine dollars monthly so that Elena could still watch Netflix in an apartment Maya no longer lived in.

Maya swallowed her daily handful of vitamins—D for the depression she refused to treat, B-complex for energy she didn't have, iron for blood that felt like it had been drained from her veins months ago. They stuck in her throat like tiny accusations.

She thought about calling Elena. She thought about showing up at the door. She thought about cutting the cable herself, literally—scissors through the coaxial cord like she was cutting through something living.

Instead, she opened Instagram. Elena had posted a photo: a fresh spinach salad, vibrant green, captioned "New recipes, new beginnings."

Maya deleted her account.

The spinach could wait one more day.