What We Don't Spit Out

The spinach had been stuck in Miriam's front tooth for twenty minutes. She'd felt it with her tongue — that familiar, leafy resistance against her enamel — while Richard explained the quarterly projections to his boss's wife. But she hadn't excused herself. She'd just kept nodding, swallowing her wine along with her dignity, while Richard's hand rested possessively on her thigh.

She'd met Richard at a baseball game ten years ago. Seventh inning stretch, foam fingers melting in the summer heat, his face lit by something genuine when their team hit a home run. That Richard had vanished somewhere between the promotion he'd chased and the mortgage they'd signed.

Their dog, Barnaby, lay across the room, his golden head resting on his paws, watching them with those ancient, judgmental eyes. He'd been Richard's idea too — a symbol of the stable life they were building. Now Richard barely looked at him, except to complain about the hair on his suits.

"You're quiet tonight," Richard said, his voice tight with something that wasn't quite concern.

Miriam ran her tongue over the spinach again. She could taste the wine, the residual bitterness, the things she'd swallowed for years. The late nights. The women's perfume on his collar twice last year. The way he discussed her like a particularly challenging project at dinner parties.

"Just thinking," she said.

Outside, lightning shattered the sky, illuminating Richard's face in stark relief. For a moment, she saw him clearly — the lines around his mouth, the careful calculation in his eyes, the way he was already turning away from her toward someone more important.

She thought about the baseball stadium, that moment of pure possibility before the pitch. How you could swing and miss, or connect and send it soaring. But at least you swung.

Miriam pushed her chair back. The legs screeched against the floor, silencing the room. Richard's boss looked over, startled. Richard's hand slipped from her thigh.

"Where are you going?" Richard hissed.

"To spit this out," Miriam said, and for the first time in years, she meant everything.