What She Knew

Elena smoothed her hair in the bathroom mirror, noting the silver threads that had multiplied since David's promotion. Thirty-seven and already fading, she thought, though really it was the marriage that had gone gray. Not all at once—gradually, like the thinning at her temples—invisible until you looked too closely.

Dinner party. Their third this month. David's new colleagues, people whose names she forgot before the appetizers arrived. She'd become a spy in her own life, watching him perform the role of doting husband while calculating exactly how many months since he'd really looked at her.

"You've got—" David gestured vaguely at his own teeth as they rejoined the party.

Spinach. Of course. She excused herself, scrubbing at her front tooth until the mirror revealed what everyone had seen: a woman trying too hard, bits of the evening's grossness clinging to her like a clumsy confession.

Back in the dining room, someone mentioned a new show. Zombies. Everyone laughed about the cultural obsession—brains and apocalypses and endless consumption. But Elena found herself nodding too emphatically, thinking: we're all zombies, aren't we? Moving through rooms, saying words we've said a hundred times, devouring hours that leave us hollow.

The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruising oranges and pinks. Beautiful, the way endings always are.

David caught her eye across the table—a real look, or close enough to remind her what real used to feel like. His hand found hers under the table, and for a moment, she believed it meant something. That's the thing about being a spy: you learn to trust nothing, not even the evidence of your own senses.

Later, in bed, she traced the gray in his hair and wondered what had died between them. Some things, she decided as sleep finally came, some things don't rise again.