The Last Call

The dog lay on her feet, a warm, heavy anchor as she sat on her balcony, watching the city lights flicker below. Three months since Mark left, and the silence in their apartment had grown from uncomfortable companion to old friend.

Her iPhone buzzed on the table—David. Again.

'Sarah, please. Just coffee. I need to tell you something.'

She stared at the screen, thumb hovering. David had been Mark's best friend, the one who'd held her hand at the funeral, who brought her lasagna every Tuesday for two months. The friend boundary had blurred somewhere around month three, in a moment of grief that tasted like whiskey and felt like betrayal.

She peeled an orange, the citrus spray sharp against her eyelids. Simple sensory things kept her grounded now—the scent of oranges, the weight of the dog's chin on her foot, the particular shade of blue the sky turned at dusk.

'Not tonight,' she typed, then deleted.

The dog lifted his head, ears perked at her phone's vibration. David again: 'I can't keep doing this. Either we talk or I stop calling.'

Her throat tightened. That was the thing about grief—it hollowed you out until anything could fill you. Even something wrong. Even something that might have been growing quietly for years, watered by laughter across dinner tables and surreptitious glances when no one was watching.

She went inside, the dog following. The apartment smelled like the peeling orange and the particular emptiness of rooms where memories lived. In the bedroom, Mark's watch still sat on his nightstand. Time, frozen.

Her thumb moved before she could second-guess. 'Come over. Not for coffee.'

The response came instantly: 'I'm already downstairs.'

She watched from the window as he emerged from his car, looking up at her building. Some marriages end with funerals. Others begin with the quiet acknowledgment that the person standing there has been waiting longer than either of you realized.

The dog nudged her hand, and she whispered, 'I know,' letting herself feel something besides guilty for the first time in three months.