The Last Drop

Maya stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows of her forty-third-story apartment, watching the rain streak against the glass like tears that refused to fall. Behind her, Daniel slept — or pretended to. She'd stopped trying to tell the difference three months ago, around the time their conversations had devolved into grunts and nods, the kind of communication you'd expect from the walking dead. Sometimes she caught her own reflection in store windows and thought: there goes a zombie, beautiful and hollowed out.

She turned from the window and walked to the kitchen. The faucet had been dripping for weeks, a mechanical metronome counting down the hours of her unraveling marriage. She'd meant to call the superintendent. She'd meant to do a lot of things.

On the counter sat the orange Daniel had brought home yesterday — a small peace offering, or perhaps an apology he couldn't voice. He'd started doing that lately: bringing her pieces of fruit, chocolates, once a single perfect tulip. But the orange remained untouched, its bright dimpled skin mocking her with its promise of sweetness she couldn't bring herself to taste. What if it was dry inside? What if it was perfect? Either possibility seemed unbearable.

The water in the kettle began to hiss. Maya watched it through the glass, bubbles forming like tiny ambitions, rising and bursting before they could reach the surface. She thought about her mother's warning: marriage is like water, she'd said. Essential, but capable of drowning you if you're not careful.

"You're up early," Daniel said from the doorway. His voice was rough with sleep, or maybe with something else.

"Couldn't sleep."

"Me neither." He crossed the room, stopped behind her. She could feel his warmth, the familiar way he stood slightly too close, as if proximity alone might bridge the chasm between them. "Maya."

"Don't."

"I remember when you used to look at me like I was water in a desert," he said quietly. "Now I feel like something you're trying not to step in."

"You're the one who checked out," she said, turning to face him. "You're the zombie, Daniel. Not me."

"I'm tired."

"So am I."

They stood there as the kettle screamed, two people who had loved each other once, perhaps still did, somewhere beneath the layers of disappointment and ordinary grief. The orange sat between them on the counter like an unasked question.

Finally, Daniel picked it up. "I got this because you used to love them. Because I wanted to see you happy again."

He began to peel it, his fingers working methodically, the spray of citrus hitting the air between them. For the first time in months, Maya felt something besides exhaustion: a flicker of recognition, of desire, of the person she'd been before the long slow dying of their life together.

He held out a segment. "Try."

She took it from his hand, their fingers brushing. The juice was sharp and bright on her tongue, vivid and alive and everything she hadn't allowed herself to feel.

"I don't want to be dead," she whispered.

"Then let's live," he said. "Even if it hurts."

Outside, the rain kept falling, but inside, something had broken open.