Citrus at the End

Maya stood at the kitchen counter of the apartment they'd shared for seven years, peeling an orange. The spray of citrus hit her eyes and she didn't bother wiping away the tears. Daniel was moving his things out today—had been for three weeks, in stages, like a coward's execution.

She felt like a spy in her own life now, watching through windows as her marriage dismantled itself. Last week she'd followed him to coffee, his long runner's legs carrying him away from her down Valencia Street. He was running, she realized then. From what, she couldn't say. From responsibility, from the mortgage payments, from the hollowing ache of wanting children he'd never commit to.

The orange cat from next door appeared at the window, as it did most mornings, orange on orange. Maya let it in. It wound through her legs, purring accusations. You should have known, it seemed to say. You should have seen the signs.

She thought about the first time she'd seen Daniel run—college track meet, his body cutting through air like something liberated. She'd loved that about him. His freedom. Now she understood: freedom is just the ability to leave.

Daniel's key turned in the lock. He entered carrying another box, not meeting her eyes. The cat hissed and bolted.

"That's the last of it," he said.

Maya pressed a segment of orange against her tongue, sharp and bright. "You left the running shoes."

"Won't need them where I'm going."

"Where is that, exactly?"

"I don't know, May." Finally, he looked at her. "Somewhere I can breathe."

The cat returned to the windowsill, watching them with knowing green eyes. Outside, someone ran past the building—footfalls on pavement, the rhythm of departure. Maya finished her orange and wiped her sticky hands on her shirt, already planning: she would keep the apartment, she would adopt the cat, she would learn to run alone.