The Last Breakfast

Elena pressed her **palm** against the cold glass of the sliding door, watching the morning fog curl around the **orange** tree in the backyard. The fruit hung heavy and bright, mocking her with its innocence.

"You're doing it again," Marcus said from the kitchen island. He wasn't looking at her. He never really looked at her anymore—not since the promotion, not since the move, not since she'd found the messages on his phone three months ago and decided to say nothing.

"Doing what?"

"Standing there. Waiting. Like something's going to change."

Elena turned from the window. Marcus was wearing that ridiculous **hat** she'd bought him in Barcelona—the woven fedora that made him look like a pretentious philosophy professor instead of a tech VP who'd sold his soul for stock options. He'd packed it for their "reconciliation weekend" at the cabin, as if accessories could fix what honesty had broken.

"I'm not waiting," she said. "I'm deciding."

Marcus laughed, bitter and short. "Deciding what? Whether to forgive me for—"

"Not for the affair. For thinking I was stupid enough not to know. For thinking I'd settle for being the person who comes home to you. For thinking that this"—she gestured between them, at the staged weekend, at his carefully curated apology—"would ever be enough."

Outside, a wind picked up. One of the oranges fell from the tree and hit the ground with a soft thud that sounded uncomfortably like a heart beating.

"Elena—"

"Your **palm** was sweating when you proposed," she said, cutting him off. "You were so terrified I'd say no. That was real. This"—she pointed at his hat, at his practiced remorse, at everything he'd become—"this is just performance."

She picked up her car keys. "I'll send the divorce papers."

Marcus stood up, the hat finally slipping from his head. For the first time in years, he looked like the man she'd fallen in love with. "Elena, please."

But she was already closing the door behind her, and outside, the remaining oranges clung stubbornly to their branches, refusing to fall until they were damn well ready.