What We Bear at Dinner

The spinach sat limp on Mara's plate, steamed into submission, much like she felt after twelve years of marriage to David. He hadn't looked at her really looked at her since February, when she'd stopped wearing her wedding ring to work and started letting her gaze linger too long on Ethan, the new architect with hands that seemed always to be touching things he shouldn't.

"You're not eating," David said, not accusatory. Just stating facts, which he preferred to feelings.

"Not hungry." Mara pushed the spinach around. "Why did you buy so much? You hate it."

"It's good for us. Doctor said my cholesterol's borderline." David's voice had that careful quality he used at work when negotiations were souring. "Besides, you used to love it. That night in the apartment, remember? You made creamed spinach and burned the pan."

Mara remembered. She also remembered that was the last time she'd felt truly chosen, not just tolerated.

"That was fifteen years ago, David."

"Fifteen years tomorrow." He reached across the table, covering her hand with his. His palm was warm, calloused from projects he poured himself into instead of her. "I know things haven't been... easy. But I'm trying, Mara. I'm bearing a lot right now with the merger, but I'm trying."

The word hung there bearing. She was the one who'd been bearing everything, really bearing it all his distance, his emotional cowardice, her own guilt about the coffee with Ethan that had almost turned into something more. Almost.

Her phone lit up on the counter. A text from Ethan: *You busy?*

David followed her gaze. His jaw tightened. He knew. Of course he knew. He'd always known, the way prey knows when a predator is watching from the treeline. That's what she'd become to him something fox-like and sly,darting through the margins of their shared life, leaving tracks in snow she pretended didn't exist.

"Answer it," David said quietly.

"David—"

"Go on. Be the fox. Chase whatever you think will make you feel alive again." He stood up, his chair scraping against the floor. "But Mara? The spinach was never the problem."

He walked out, leaving her with her phone and the wilted greens and the sudden realization that she'd been starving herself for years, and no one was coming to feed her.