The Weight of Small Things

The apartment was quiet except for the refrigerator's hum. Mara stood at the counter, her palm pressed against the cool granite, watching him pack.

"You're really doing this," she said, not a question.

Elias didn't turn from his suitcase. "It's not working, Mara. It hasn't been working for a long time."

She remembered their first dinner—the way he'd ordered spinach salad and pretended to like it, the green flecks in his teeth when he smiled, how she'd almost told him but didn't, because she wanted him to be perfect. That's what you do when you're twenty-four and in love. You let the small things slide.

Outside, the neighbor's cat jumped onto the windowsill, its orange eyes glowing through the glass like two small moons. They'd talked about getting a cat once. They'd talked about a lot of things.

"I made your favorite," Mara said. "Before you said—that you were leaving. There's spinach in the frittata."

Elias finally turned. His eyes were red-rimmed. "I'm sorry," he said. "I really am."

She crossed the room and took his hand, palm to palm, their fingers interlacing one last time. His skin was familiar, mapped with the topography of seven years. The small scar on his thumb from the kitchen accident. The callus where his pen rested. The way his pinky never straightened completely.

"Remember when you read my palm at that party?" she asked. "In college? You told me I'd have a long life line. You said you'd be in it."

"I was twenty-two," Elias said. "I was an idiot."

"No," she said. "You were hopeful."

The cat meowed, a lonely sound that pressed against the window. Mara watched it turn and leap away into the darkness.

"You know what's funny," she said, dropping his hand. "I never actually liked spinach either. I just wanted us to have something in common."

Elias stared at her. For a moment, something cracked in his expression—a recognition of all the small performances that had made up their life together. Then he picked up his suitcase.

"I'll send for the rest of my things next week."

"Don't," she said. "Just leave them."

When the door clicked shut, Mara stood alone in their kitchen. She flipped the frittata onto a plate, sat at the table where they'd eaten a thousand meals, and took a bite. The spinach was bitter. She'd always known it would be.