What We Let Rot

The spinach had been in the crisper drawer for eleven days. Elena had bought it the night Marcos told her he'd be late for dinner again—something about work, though she'd noticed the fresh padel racquet in his gym bag beside their bed. Now the leaves were turning slimy at the edges, a dark green collapse that mirrored something in her chest.

Her friend Sofia had come over for wine and pointed out the obvious: 'You're not blindsided, El. You're just waiting for it to stop hurting enough to act.' Sofia had left her iphone face-down on the table after their call, but Elena had seen the notification anyway—Marcos's name with a heart emoji from someone named Carla.

Padel. That was the word that had started it all—or rather, ended it. Marcos had taken up the sport three months ago, coming home flushed and alive in a way he hadn't been around Elena in years. 'It's just a club membership,' he'd said. 'Just friends.' The universal language of people who've already checked out.

She'd cooked with the spinach that first week, made them salads while he described his matches with breathless enthusiasm. Carla this, Carla that. Carla had a killer backhand. Carla laughed at his jokes. Carla was separated, just like Elena was about to be.

Now the spinach sat in its plastic tomb, another thing she'd meant to deal with but couldn't bring herself to touch. Some rot you scrape away. Some you let consume whole.

Her iphone buzzed on the counter—Marcos, asking if she wanted to meet for dinner. 'Just as friends,' his message said, as if they'd ever been anything else. Elena typed 'I'd love that' before throwing the spinach in the trash, watching dark leaves scatter against the plastic liner like something that had died trying to be enough.