The Last Orange

Margaret stood by the break room window, peeling the last orange from the bowl. The citrus scent released into stale office air—a small rebellion against the fluorescent hum of Friday evening. Her team had been ordered to work late again, something about the merger that everyone whispered about but no one understood.

The orange in her hand was impossibly bright against the gray laminate of the counter. She thought about David, who'd left her three months ago for someone younger, someone who didn't carry the weight of twenty years in corporate communications like armor. He'd said she'd forgotten how to live. Looking at her reflection in the darkened window, she wondered if he was right.

"They got you too?" said a voice behind her.

She turned to find Marcus from Accounting, staring into the goldfish bowl on his desk. The fish—a comet he'd named Mercury—swam in endless circles, its orange scales catching the last rays of sunset through the window.

"Mercury's been acting strange," Marcus said, not looking at her. "Swimming near the top. Think the water's too warm?"

Margaret watched the fish. It pressed against the glass, mouth opening and closing in silent rhythm.

"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe it's just trying to remember what it's like to breathe."

Marcus laughed softly. "You always say things like that. Things that make me question everything."

The question hung between them—charged with possibility. Margaret noticed the way his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows, the sharp line of his jaw, the gentle way he fed Mercury each morning. How had she never really looked at him before?

"I'm thinking of leaving," she heard herself say. "The firm. The city. Everything."

Marcus finally turned to her, his brown eyes searching hers. "Then go."

She took a bite of the orange, juice running down her chin, and understood suddenly that the water she'd been drowning in was of her own making. The goldfish continued its circles. Outside, the last light of day bled into night. Somewhere beyond this building, life was happening.

Margaret tossed the orange peel into the trash. "Will you come with me?"

Marcus smiled—a real smile, reaching his eyes. "I was hoping you'd ask."