Everything That Remains

The bear had been watching him for three days. Not a living one—a taxidermy monstrosity the previous owners had left behind, its glass eyes tracking his movements across the living room of the Airbnb. Marcus had almost asked the host about having it removed, then decided it felt appropriate somehow. He was thirty-eight, newly separated, staying in a stranger's mountain rental while his marriage was being divided by lawyers. The bear seemed like the only honest thing in his life.

He found the orange in the back of the refrigerator, a shriveled thing that had been there since before he arrived. Its skin was pitted, growing mold in one corner. He should have thrown it out, but instead he rolled it between his palms, feeling the diminishing weight of it, the way its resistance had softened over time. Sarah had loved oranges—she'd peel them in one long spiral, never breaking the rind, presenting the fruit like a gift. The last time he'd seen her, their final meeting at the coffee shop, she'd ordered an orange scone and picked at it without eating.

The pool at the rental property wasn't heated. That hadn't stopped him from staring at it through the sliding glass doors each night, illuminated by underwater lights that turned the water an impossible blue. Tonight was his last here. Tomorrow, he'd return to the apartment he now occupied alone, filled with boxes he hadn't unpacked and furniture that didn't fit in rooms that felt too large and too small all at once.

He stepped onto the deck in nothing but boxers, the mountain air biting at his skin. The pool surface broke the reflection of the moon as he slipped in, the cold shocking his breath away. He stayed under, letting the silence fill his ears, the weight of the water holding him together. When he surfaced, gasping, the taxidermy bear was visible through the glass doors, still watching, unmoving, eternal.

Marcus pulled himself from the pool, water streaming from his skin. He dripped across the deck, through the glass doors, past the bear. He went to the kitchen, took out a knife, and cut into the orange. The first spray of juice hit his wrist, sharp and bright. He ate section after section, not caring about the mess, letting the acid burn his tongue, letting everything be messy and unfinished and real. Some things you couldn't preserve. Some things you just had to consume before they rotted entirely.