The Weight of Water

Margaret stood at the kitchen counter, her wedding band clicking against the ceramic bowl as she stripped the spinach from its stems. Three years of marriage reduced to this: the rhythmic tearing of greens, the sound of water running from the tap, Nathan's key turning in the lock at 7:42 PM precisely.

"Rough day," he said, not asking. He loosened his tie with the same weary gesture she'd watched a thousand times.

"Your mother called."

Nathan went still. "And?"

"She thinks we're swimming in debt. She suggested we sell the condo."

He laughed, a dry sound that cracked in the middle. "She's been suggesting that since we bought it. What did you say?"

Margaret kept her eyes on the spinach. "I said we're fine. But Nathan—" she turned to face him "—are we?"

The question hung between them, heavier than the unsaid words of three years. Nathan rubbed his temples. "The partnership track is brutal, Mags. You know that."

"I know you haven't taken a vacation in two years. I know you barely sleep. I know last week you forgot our anniversary dinner." Her voice didn't waver. "And I know I'm tired of swimming upstream alone."

He crossed to her, placed his hands on her shoulders. She tensed, then leaned into his touch despite herself. "I'm doing this for us. For the future."

"What future?" She stepped back, his hands falling away. "The one where we're strangers who share a bed? The one where I find myself resenting you more than I love you?"

Nathan flinched as if she'd struck him.

"I spoke with a divorce lawyer today," she said quietly.

The water from the tap kept running, oblivious, filling the silence between them.

"Spinach," Nathan said finally, staring at the colander. "You're making salmon with spinach. Like that first dinner I cooked for you."

"Everything sticks," she said. "Even the things you think you've washed clean."