Water Under the Bridge

Mara watched him chew. That piece of **spinach**—so green, so stubborn—lodged between his front teeth. She wanted to reach across the table and pull it free, the way she would have reached for anything once. But she didn't.

'Are you going to say something?' David asked.

The **water** in her glass had gone warm. She swirled it anyway, watching the surface tremble.

'What is there to say?' She gestured at the half-empty apartment, the boxes stacked like accusations against walls they'd painted together three years ago. That morning, choosing the color—something called **orange** sunrise, though they'd both agreed it looked more like something burning.

The divorce papers sat on the counter. Signed. Final.

'I remember,' David said, 'when we went to that **baseball** game. Your father's company seats. Fifth inning, it started pouring, and everyone left, but we stayed. You kissed me with rain running down your face and said—'

'"This is it."'

The words hung between them, heavy and impossible. She had meant it then. That was the terrible thing. She had meant every word, every promise, every I'll-love-you-forever whispered against wet skin.

Now the spinach fell free when David laughed, short and sharp. He didn't notice. Or maybe he didn't care anymore. Maybe that was the point.

'You're not going to cry,' he said. It wasn't a question.

'I cried it out last month. While you were at your conference.' She stood up, her chair scraping against the hardwood. 'The realtor comes at noon tomorrow. Please be gone by then.'

He nodded, once. 'Okay.'

She watched him walk out, and realized with a sudden, hollow clarity: there was no water under any bridge. There was just the bridge itself, stretching forward and back, and she was still standing on it. Alone.

The orange sunset caught her through the window. She poured herself another glass of water and waited for dark.