Citrus and Saltwater

The rain had been falling for three days when Elena showed up at my door, her hair plastered to her skull like wet seaweed. We hadn't spoken since her husband left, but here she was, holding a bag of groceries like an offering.

"I brought oranges," she said, water dripping from her chin onto my welcome mat. "For vitamin C. Or something."

I let her in. We were friends once, the kind who shared everything—secrets, clothes, the same therapist. But somewhere between her wedding and my divorce, we'd become strangers who knew each other's scars.

She peeled an orange at my kitchen table, her fingers stained with juice, bright against her pale skin. The smell filled the small apartment—citrus cutting through the mold and stale coffee.

"Mark's getting married again," she said, not looking at me. "To her."

The water kept falling outside, relentless. I thought about my own apartment, how I'd stopped eating. How I'd forgotten what hunger felt like. Elena held out a section of orange, her hand trembling.

"Eat," she said.

I took it. The juice burned my tongue—sharp, alive. I started crying, couldn't stop. She reached across the table, her wet hand covering mine.

"I'm sorry," she said. "About everything."

"We were supposed to be friends," I said. "Through everything."

"We were," she said. "Then we weren't. Then we are again. Isn't that how it works?"

The orange sections lay between us like torn-apart planets. Outside, the water kept falling, washing the city clean. We sat there, eating the rest of the orange in silence, our fingers sticky, the rain our only witness.