Cable to Yesterday

The orange peel lay curled on the coffee table like a small, brilliant sun — the brightest thing in Mara's apartment since David left. She watched the baseball game with the sound turned down, the players moving in silent, graceful arcs across the screen. Cable TV had been David's domain, his Friday night ritual. Now it felt like speaking a dead language.

The Yankees were down by three runs in the eighth inning when the cable signal sputtered and died. The screen went gray, then bloomed with static snow. Mara stared at it, weirdly calm. This was it, then. The final unraveling.

She'd been meaning to call and cancel the service for months. Hadn't found the time, or more accurately, hadn't found the words. Cancelling cable felt like admitting it was really over. Like returning the wedding rings she still wore on a chain around her neck, hidden beneath her blouse.

The phone buzzed. A text from her sister: "You okay? Heard about David."

Mara typed back: "Fine. Just watching the game." Then deleted it. What game? The screen was static now. She was lying to her sister about a baseball game she wasn't even watching, on a cable service she couldn't afford, in an apartment she'd probably lose.

The orange scent still hung in the air — sharp, clean, honest. She pressed her thumb into the peel, releasing more of the oil. Simple pleasure. No deception there.

Outside, summer pressed against the windows. Somewhere, baseball games were ending. Somewhere, cable signals traveled through wires and air, connecting people to things they loved, things they watched, things that let them feel something. Anything.

Mara stood up and walked to the window. The cable box blinked its lonely light beneath the television. She thought about calling David — just to hear his voice, even if he didn't answer. But she didn't.

Instead, she pressed another section of orange peel against her wrist and breathed in deeply. The scent was everything. It was enough.