Wilting Greens

Maya watched the spinach wilt in the pan, its vibrant dark leaves turning limp under the heat—much like her marriage had over the past six months. The kitchen felt suffocatingly quiet, save for the sizzling of olive oil and the distant hum of the shower upstairs. That's where David was. That's where David always was these days.

Her iPhone vibrated against the marble countertop. Sarah. Again.

'You need to see this,' the text read.

Maya's thumb hovered over the screen. Sarah had been her best friend since college, the one person who knew everything—except, apparently, the one thing that mattered. Sarah worked with David. Sarah had noticed things Maya had been too distracted, too trusting, to see herself.

The shower stopped running.

Maya tapped the attachment. A photo. David and some woman from his office, their mouths pressed together in what was unmistakably not a professional greeting. The timestamp was Friday night. David had told her he was working late.

The front door opened. She'd forgotten Sarah was coming over for dinner.

'Shit, Maya, I'm sorry,' Sarah said, dropping her grocery bags on the island. 'I didn't want to send it. I thought you should know, but I shouldn't have—'

Maya stared at the spinach. It was done. Perfectly seasoned, exactly how David liked it. She'd made it because he'd complained about feeling sluggish lately. Because she still cared about making him feel better, even as he'd been making her feel worse for months.

'How long?' Maya asked.

Sarah's face crumbled. 'Three months? Maybe four. I only know because they're not as careful at the office as they think they are.'

'Maya?' David's voice from the doorway. He'd come down in his towel, water still clinging to his chest. He looked between them, his expression shifting from relaxed to something colder. 'Everything okay?'

Maya turned off the stove. The kitchen smelled of garlic and betrayal.

'The spinach is done,' she said. 'But I think you should leave.'

She didn't mean Sarah.