What We Keep

Margaret stood at the kitchen counter, forcing herself to chew the spinach that had gone slick and cold in her mouth. The salad was David's attempt at health, his latest response to her mother's stroke three months ago. Everything now was about prevention, about warding off the inevitable.

"You should eat," he said, not looking up from his phone.

"I am eating."

"You're pushing it around the plate."

She looked at him—really looked—at the silver threading through his dark hair, the new lines around his eyes that had deepened since her mother's decline. They'd stopped having sex around the same time. Not because they didn't love each other, but because everything had become too heavy, too freighted with meaning. Every touch felt like a question: Are we okay? Is this okay? Are we still us?

"David."

"Hmm?"

"Put the phone away."

He did, and she saw it then—the orange light from the setting sun hitting his face, illuminating the worry he'd been carrying like a stone. He looked exhausted. She felt exhausted.

"My mother used to put orange peels in her closet," she said suddenly. "To keep the moths away. To protect what she couldn't bear to lose."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I found a moth hole in my sweater yesterday. And instead of throwing it out, I put it back in the closet."

"Margaret?"

"I'm saying we're protecting the wrong things. I'm saying I'd rather have holes than stop wearing what I love."

The spinach lay forgotten. David reached across the table, his fingers finding the stray hair that had escaped her ponytail, tucking it behind her ear with the same tenderness he'd had fifteen years ago.

"I don't want to live like we're waiting for something to go wrong," he said.

"Then don't."

They stood up together, leaving the dirty dishes, leaving the spinach, leaving the careful life they'd been trying to build against an imaginary future. The orange light faded, but something else ignited in its wake.