The Art of Leaving

The orange sat on the kitchen counter between us, bright and accusing in the fluorescent morning light. Not a blood orange, just a regular navel from the bag we'd bought two days ago—back when we were still a we.

'I'm taking the cat,' Marcus said, not looking at me. His keys jingled in his hand, a nervous tic I'd once found endearing.

'But you hate cats.' I leaned against the counter, waiting for the denial, the justification. The standard breakup script.

'That's not the point.' Marcus finally met my eyes. 'She loves me more.'

It was the pettiness that got to me. Not the ending—we'd been dead for months—but the way he'd weaponized everything. Even the baseball games I'd sat through, sweating in plastic seats, pretending to care about his nostalgia for a sport he hadn't played since college. Those Saturday afternoons were currency now, tallied in some invisible ledger of who sacrificed what.

The cat wound around my ankles, purring, completely unaware she was being fought over. Her orange collar glinted—my choice, not his. He'd wanted blue. So many battles I hadn't realized were wars.

'Fine,' I said. 'Take her.'

Marcus stopped jingling his keys. 'What?'

'You heard me.' I picked up the orange, my thumb finding the perfect spot to pierce the skin. 'She'll adjust. Cats always do.'

'That's it? No fight?' He sounded almost disappointed.

I peeled the orange slowly, the citrus scent sharp and clean in our stale, shared air. 'Some things aren't worth fighting for. Haven't you figured that out yet?'

He left with the cat in a carrier I'd bought, the one with the little window so she could see out. I watched from the doorway as he loaded her into his truck, along with the baseball memorabilia he'd compiled like evidence of a life he thought he was supposed to have.

I ate the orange standing in the kitchen, section by section, letting the juice run down my chin. It was sweet and tart and perfect, and for the first time in years, I didn't have to share it with anyone.