What Remains in the Sink

Julia stood at the kitchen sink, the cold water running over her hands, washing away the grit of another day alone. Three months after David's funeral, the house still held echoes of him — his coffee mug in the cupboard, his worn slippers by the recliner, Buster's leash hanging by the door even though the golden retriever had been put down six weeks before David died. Cancer took them both, as if David couldn't bear to leave without his constant companion.

She pulled the colander from the drying rack and dumped in the fresh spinach she'd bought at the farmer's market, trying to embrace the healthy cooking David had always preached about. It felt performative now, like learning lines for a play that had already closed.

"Spinach again," her sister had said during last night's phone call, her tone judgmental. "You're going to turn green, Jules. Order a pizza. Live a little."

But Julia couldn't explain that chopping spinach leaves was the only thing that made her feel like she was still tethered to something real. The way her fingers stained slightly green. The earthy smell that filled the kitchen. The ritual of it.

Buster used to sit at her feet whenever she cooked, waiting for dropped scraps. Sometimes she still looked down expecting to see his golden tail thumping against the linoleum. The absence was physical, a hollow space in the room where a living, breathing thing used to be.

The water had grown cold. She shut off the tap and watched the last droplets spiral down the drain. David used to say that water never really disappeared — it just changed form, moved through the world, became rain and rivers and tears. It was a comforting thought, scientifically dubious but emotionally necessary.

"Science teacher to the end," she whispered, and something in her chest cracked open.

She transferred the spinach to the salad bowl, her vision blurring. The grief came less often now, but when it did, it arrived with the same force as the day she signed the cremation papers. She'd thought she was past the weeping-in-the-kitchen phase. She was wrong.

Her phone buzzed on the counter. Her sister again, probably. Or maybe it was work, asking if she could come in early tomorrow. The outside world kept turning, indifferent to her private apocalypse.

Julia wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and reached for the phone. It was a text from David's old colleague, someone she'd met exactly twice at faculty parties: *Thinking of you. Buster was the best dog I ever knew. David too.*

She stared at the message until the screen went dark, then placed the phone back on the counter. The spinach glistened under the kitchen lights, wet and vivid and absurdly green. Somewhere, water was falling as rain. Somewhere, a dog was barking at nothing in particular. Somewhere, people were falling in love, unaware of how completely it could all fall apart.

Julia picked up her fork and took a bite. It tasted like everything and nothing at all.