Rotten

The orange sat on her desk like a small, smug sun. Three days it had been there, since Marcus left, since he said the words that still echoed in the hollow spaces of their apartment. "I need space." What a cowardly verb. Need. As if desire could be blamed on physics.

She watched the dog walker pause outside her window again—a retriever mix with anxious eyes, its owner tugging the leash with practiced impatience. They used to talk about getting a dog, back when they still made plans together. Marcus wanted something loyal. She wanted something that needed her.

The spinach in her refrigerator had turned to slime by now, much like everything else in her life. She'd bought it for the salad she was making when he told her, the night he'd come home late smelling of vanilla and someone else's perfume. Not citrus. Never citrus.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus. Again.

"Can we talk?"

She stared at the message until her eyes burned. Then she picked up the orange, squeezed it until her nails pierced the peel. Juice ran down her wrist, sticky and sharp. The scent was violent, unavoidable. Just like memory.

"I'm busy," she typed back.

Outside, the dog barked at something invisible. The walker kept walking. The orange continued its slow, silent decay on her desk, and somehow that felt like the most honest thing in her life.