Unplugged

Margaret stood at the kitchen counter, her hands wrist-deep in raw **spinach**, tearing leaves with methodical precision. The kale salad was for a dinner party that had been canceled three hours ago—a cancellation delivered via text, the modern way to end things without having to hear the sound of rejection.

Her **dog**, Buster, pressed his warm flank against her leg, sensing something was wrong. He'd been her only consistent companion since David moved out two months ago. David, who had loved her cooking but hated her silences. David, who had packed his things while she was at work, leaving only his collection of vintage gaming consoles and a tangled nest of HDMI **cables** on the living room floor.

The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of rain against the windows. She turned on the faucet, watching **water** cascade over her hands, washing away the faint metallic smell of spinach. She'd grown accustomed to this kind of solitude—the kind that crept in gradually, like winter, until you stopped noticing how cold you'd become.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. David again. *"Can we talk? I'm coming over."

Margaret turned off the water. She considered what to say—what she wanted to say versus what she should say. In the end, she simply dried her hands on a towel, pressed the phone to silent, and continued preparing the spinach for a meal she would eat alone, with only Buster to witness her small, ordinary act of survival.