Last Drops of You

The water had been running for twenty minutes. Maya stood at the bathroom sink, watching the spiral of steam rise toward the ceiling, where the paint was peeling in the corner she kept promising to fix. Somewhere in the apartment, Julian was packing his things. The sound of cardboard tape being ripped from the roll echoed like a gunshot through the space they'd shared for three years.

She ran her fingers through her hair, now wet from the shower she couldn't remember taking. Julian had loved her hair. He'd bury his hands in it when they made love, when they fought, when they watched television on Sunday mornings like some domestic ideal they were both performing. Now it hung heavy, a curtain between her and the mirror.

"Maya?" His voice from the doorway. She didn't turn. "I'm leaving now."

"Okay."

"The keys are on the counter."

"Okay."

The front door clicked shut. She waited until she heard his footsteps fade down the hall, until the elevator dinged, until the silence became absolute. Then she turned off the water.

On the kitchen counter, beside the keys, sat an orange. A single piece of fruit left behind like some absurdist still life of their marriage. Julian had bought them by the bagful every Sunday, farmer's market runs that felt ritual, meaningful, the kind of thing you did when you were building a life with someone. Now this one sat alone, impossibly bright against the gray countertop.

Maya picked it up. She remembered the weekend they'd gone to that cabin by the lake, how they'd sat on the dock with their legs dangling in the water, eating oranges and spitting the seeds into the dark water below. They'd talked about the future then—a concept that had seemed so malleable, so full of possibility. Now the future was this: a quiet apartment, a single orange, and the realization that you could love someone with your whole heart and still not be enough to make them stay.

She peeled the orange, the spray of citrus hitting her eyes like tiny, fragrant tears. She ate it standing at the counter, and when she was done, she placed the rind in the compost bin and finally, for the first time in three years, turned off the bathroom light.