The Salad of Her Discontent

Eleanor stood in the corner of the rooftop reception, nursing her third glass of champagne and wishing she'd chosen a different sister to stand up for today. The wedding was beautiful, of course. Sarah was radiant, the flowers were expensive, and the groom was handsome in that bland, corporate way that suggested he'd never surprised anyone in his life.

She speared another piece of spinach from her wilted salad, chewing mechanically. Even the food was pretending to be something it wasn't—this organic, locally-sourced, overpriced bullshit that everyone pretended to enjoy. Eleanor had been running on this same treadmill for twenty years: the right job, the right apartment, the right clothes, the right men who disappointed her in the same predictable ways.

"You look like you're plotting murder," someone said beside her.

Eleanor turned to find a man she didn't recognize, holding two drinks and wearing a hat—a genuine fedora, indoors, like he'd walked out of a noir film. He shouldn't have been able to pull it off, but he did. Something about the way he stood, loose and unapologetic.

"Just considering which one," she said, surprised by her own candor. "The groom, the bride, or myself for wearing these shoes."

His laugh was rusty, like he hadn't used it much lately. "I'm Marcus. Sarah's college roommate, from that semester she studied abroad."

"Eleanor. Her older sister. The one with the real job and the retirement plan."

"The one who's been running away from anything interesting since 2008?"

The spinach soured in her stomach. "Excuse me?"

Marcus gestured toward the dance floor with his drink, where Sarah was spinning in her white dress, glowing with that terrifying hope that only brides possessed. "She told me about you. The corporate lawyer who wanted to be a chef. The one who's always eating salads she hates and dating men she doesn't love."

Eleanor set her glass down harder than intended. "And what would you know about what I want?"

"Nothing." He adjusted his hat, not looking away. "Except that you're still here, still eating the spinach, still waiting for permission to be who you actually are."

The champagne turned to acid in her throat. He was right. God, she hated that he was right. She'd been running from herself since law school, choosing safety over desire, obligation over joy, wearing identities like ill-fitting clothes she refused to exchange.

Eleanor looked at her spinach-stained plate, at her sister's joyous face, at this stranger in his ridiculous hat who'd seen right through her in thirty seconds flat.

"I quit today," she said.

Marcus raised an eyebrow.

"My job. I handed in my resignation this morning. I just haven't told anyone yet."

For the first time all night, his smile reached his eyes. "Well then." He offered her his untouched drink. "What are you going to do tomorrow?"

Eleanor took the glass, finally feeling the champagne hit properly. "I'm going to learn how to cook something that isn't good for me. And then I'm going to figure out the rest."

"Good." Marcus touched the brim of his hat. "It's about time you stopped running."