Ash and Orange Peel

The cabin smelled of pine and neglect. Mark stood on the dock, watching the water darken toward evening, a bottle of whiskey dangling from his fingers. His father's old dog, a graying retriever named Buster, lay beside him — the one good thing remaining from the marriage.

"She couldn't even wait for the settlement," Mark said to the dog. Buster thumped his tail against the weathered woodboards, indifferent to human betrayal.

Inside the cabin, above the stone fireplace, the taxidermy bear his father had shot thirty years ago stared down with glass eyes. Mark had hated that bear his entire life — the way its mouth hung open in perpetual roar, the stiff fur gathering dust, the violent trophy it represented. But Sarah had loved it. She'd called it "character."

"Character," Mark scoffed, pouring more whiskey. "It's a dead animal, Sarah. It's not character."

She'd left last week. Just packed her Louis Vuitton bag and the bear — she'd insisted on taking the bear, saying she'd paid for its restoration with her inheritance. The audacity of it still made his hands shake.

The sun began to set, painting the water in shades of violet and burnt orange. Mark peeled an orange he'd brought from town, the citrus scent sharp against the cabin's mustiness. He remembered how Sarah would eat oranges in bed, leaving sticky rings on the nightstand, how he'd pretended not to mind.

"Buster," he said softly. "You're the only one who's stayed."

The old dog raised his head, eyes clouding with cataracts, and let out a small whine.

Mark took a bite of the orange, bitter and sweet on his tongue. Someplace across the lake, a loon called out — a lonely, haunting sound. He realized with sudden clarity that he didn't miss Sarah. He missed the idea of her. He missed who he thought she was when they stood at this same dock ten years ago, promising forever beneath the same orange sky.

The bear was gone. The marriage was over. But the water kept moving, the sun kept setting, and Buster was still here, thumping his tail against the dock, loving him without condition.

Mark finished the orange and wiped his sticky hands on his pants. Some things, he decided, were better left behind.