The Hat Collector's Last Sunset

Margaret hadn't meant to become a hat collector. The fedora from their honeymoon in Venice gathered dust beside the porkpie hat David wore to his father's funeral—his death, not her husband's, though sometimes she wondered if there was much difference anymore. David moved through their house like a zombie, hollowed out by years of corporate promotions that promised fulfillment but delivered only exhaustion and a swimming pool they never used.

She peeled an orange at the kitchen counter, the citrus scent sharp and violent against the silence. bitter spray misted her wrists. Three years ago, David would have appeared behind her, hands on her waist, breath warm against her neck. Now he existed elsewhere—in his home office, in his head, in some emotional landscape she no longer had a map to.

"You going to the gala tonight?" His voice came from the doorway. She hadn't heard him approach.

"I suppose." She placed the orange segments on a plate, precise and trembling. "Your firm's Christmas party. Attendance mandatory for spouses."

"I can go alone."

"And have them ask where I am? Again?" She turned to face him. David stood in his dress shirt and suspenders, handsome and strangely vacant. "Do you even remember what I sound like when I'm not talking about your schedule or the house?"

He rubbed his forehead. "You know how the merger's been."

"I know you've been dead since 2019 and nobody had the decency to bury you."

The words hung between them, shivering and electric. Something flickered behind his eyes—recognition, perhaps. Or maybe just the shock of being seen after so long in darkness. He reached toward the hat rack where his collection lived, fingers hovering over the brim of a Panama hat they'd bought in Cartagena, when they still touched each other without flinching.

"Margaret."

"Eat an orange with me," she said. "Just sit down. We'll peel it together. Talk about something that isn't work or money or whateverthisis."

He hesitated. Then he pulled a chair from the table, the legs screeching against the floor. The sun was setting through the kitchen window, turning their worn linoleum the color of bruised apricots. For a moment, the zombie retreated. Something approximating a husband emerged from the ruins, reaching for an orange segment, their fingers almost touching.

"Remember Cartagena?" he asked quietly.

"I remember," she said. "I remember."