Citrus and Asphalt

Forty-two years old and still chasing ghosts. Marcus stood at the kitchen counter, peeling an orange with mechanical precision. The citrus scent hit him—sharper than he expected, cutting through the stale beer smell that had become his apartment's signature since Elena left three months ago.

He'd started running again. Not because he wanted to—he hated every damn second of it—but because Dr. Patel had insisted his blood pressure was creeping toward dangerous territory. "You need vitamin D supplements and cardiovascular exercise," she'd said, clicking through her screen. "Or we discuss statins."

So Marcus ran. Every morning at 5:30, his sneakers hitting the pavement in rhythm with his shame. Running from the empty apartment. Running toward what, exactly? He wasn't sure yet.

The orange segments burst in his mouth—too sweet, almost cloying. He remembered buying them for Sophie, their daughter. "Daddy, these taste like sunshine," she'd said at six. Now at sixteen, she barely texted him back.

A scratching sound at the door. Barnaby—the golden retriever Elena had somehow forgotten when she moved into her new place with Derek from accounting. Marcus had fought for custody of the dog in the mediation. It was the only thing he'd won.

"Hey buddy," he said, opening the door to the wet, hopeful creature. Barnaby's tail thumped against the wall, that stupid, unwavering love that made Marcus's chest ache.

He looked at his daily vitamin organizer—Wednesday, Thursday, Friday compartments flipped open. The supplements stood in neat military rows, evidence of his attempt to manufacture hope in pill form.

Marcus finished the orange, wiped his sticky fingers on his running shorts. Tomorrow he'd turn forty-three. Tomorrow he'd run again. Tomorrow he'd call Sophie, and maybe this time she'd pick up.

Barnaby nudged his hand, and Marcus scratched behind his ears, the dog leaning into his touch with complete trust. Some things, at least, hadn't left.

The sun was coming up anyway. Might as well get a head start on all the running he had left to do.