Wilted Greens at 40

Marcus stood at the stove, watching the spinach collapse in the pan—first reluctantly surrendering its structure, then wilting into something unrecognizable. The way we all do, he thought, stirring the greens with wooden spoon.

"You're still with that corporate bull, aren't you?" Elena asked from the kitchen island, her wine glass leaving condensation rings on the marble. They hadn't spoken since David's funeral three years ago, since the argument about who he'd really loved, since she'd called him emotionally stunted and he'd called her dramatic.

Marcus didn't turn around. "He's my partner, Elena. It's not that simple."

"It never is." She reached for the spinach container, her fingers brushing his arm as he turned. The contact sent something through him—water, perhaps, or just the ghost of familiarity. "You've been a zombie since I've known you, Marc. Walking around with those dead eyes, letting life happen to you."

"I'm happy," he said, but the words tasted like lie.

"Are you?" Her voice softened. "Then why are you making spinach at eleven on a Tuesday? Why did you text me after three years of silence?"

The spinach sulked in the pan, dark and reduced. Marcus turned off the burner. "Because I remembered what you said at the funeral. That grief is love with nowhere to go."

"And?"

"And I'm tired of carrying it all alone." He looked at her—really looked. "I don't know if I'm happy, Elena. But I think I'm done being dead."

She set down her glass and crossed the small kitchen, wrapping her arms around him. For the first time in years, Marcus let himself be held. The spinach cooled beside them, two estranged friends finally learning to breathe again.