Rinse Cycle

The laundromat's fluorescent lights hummed at 3 AM, the kind of hour that existed only for insomniacs and people whose lives had fallen apart. Sarah sat on the folding table, watching her clothes tumble through the glass — underwear, work blouses, the dress she'd worn to what turned out to be her last anniversary dinner. Through the window, someone was running past in the rain. Just a silhouette, but she recognized Mark's gait, the slight limp he'd developed since that skiing accident three years ago, back when they still pretended to be happy.

She'd asked for a separation that morning. His response had been to buy oranges, like somehow citrus could fix what twelve years of marriage had rotted. Now three sat on the table beside her, their bright, cheerful peel mocking her grief. Sarah picked one up, digging her thumbnail into the skin. The spray hit her wrist, sharp and sudden, and she remembered how Mark used to peel them for her during chemotherapy, his hands steady while hers shook from the drugs.

The washing machine churned. Water rushed against glass, relentless as time. She'd been running from this moment for months — running to work early, running to the gym late, running from conversations that might have saved them. Now she was sitting still while everything she owned spun in circles.

The orange in her hands felt impossibly heavy. She took a bite, the juice flooding her mouth, sweet and bitter all at once. Through the window, the running figure was gone, but the rain kept falling, washing away footprints she hadn't realized she'd been waiting to follow.