Saturation Point

Margot stood at the kitchen sink, watching the dirty water spiral down the drain—brown, soapy, relentless. Just like the last three years of her marriage, really.

"You're doing that thing again," David said from the table. He was peeling an orange, the citrus scent sharp and accusing in the stale air. "Where you go somewhere else when I'm talking to you."

She turned, water dripping from her hands. "I was thinking about Richard's retirement party. You didn't even look at me when I told you I went."

"I was reading about the new study." David gestured to his tablet, displaying yet another article about longevity hacks. "They found that high-dose vitamin D can reduce mortality by forty percent in certain—"

"Richard has pancreatic cancer, David."

The orange peel lay in a messy spiral on the table. He didn't look up. "I'm just saying. We could optimize."

Margot's phone buzzed—an email from Richard's secretary thanking her for visiting yesterday. She'd sat by his hospital bed, holding his papery hand while he confessed that he'd wasted his life collecting achievements instead of moments. The water on her hands had dried, leaving her skin tight.

She crossed to David, gently covered his hand with hers. His eyes finally met hers, hopeful for once, as if her touch meant something more than what it was: a farewell.

"David," she said, "vitamins don't fix what's already dead."

The orange lay forgotten between them. Somewhere in the house, a pipe began to drip—water marking time until one of them would finally leave.