Juice and Silence

Marcus stood in his ex-wife's kitchen, watching the spinach rot in the crisper drawer. Three days after the argument about — what had it been about? The forgotten anniversary? The pile of unopened mail? It didn't matter now. The divorce papers would arrive any day.

He'd come to pick up Buster, their golden retriever, who sat by the back door with his chin on his paws, eyes dark and knowing. The dog had always been the better judge of character between them.

"You still have your key," Elena had said when she called. "Just come get him. I can't... not right now."

The kitchen smelled of her — oranges and expensive lotion. On the counter sat his old iPhone, the one he'd left behind months ago during the first move-out attempt. She'd charged it. That was Elena: practical to the end. He picked it up, thumbed it on. A text from his sister: "Thinking of you."

Outside, through the sliding glass door, he could see the padel court they'd never finished building. The concrete was poured, the nets up, but they'd never played a single game together. Too busy building a life to actually live it.

Buster lifted his head when Marcus approached, tail thumping once against the floorboards. The dog's coat was matted; Elena hadn't been brushing him. She was drinking again. He could tell by the recycling bin overflowing with wine bottles.

He knelt, buried his face in the dog's neck. "Yeah, buddy," he whispered. "I know."

His phone buzzed in his hand — the new one, from his pocket. Elena: "Are you there? I forgot to say. Don't take the oranges. I need them for work."

Marcus stared at the text, then at the bowl of perfect oranges on the counter, and finally at the wilted spinach that symbolized everything they'd let die between them. He took the spinach, threw it in the trash, and picked up the dog's leash.

Some things were still worth saving.