The Last Orange

The orange light of sunset spilled across our kitchen counter, catching the dust motes that danced between us. Marcus stood by the sink, peeling a clementine with surgical precision, the citrus scent sharp against three weeks of silence.

'Your vitamin D supplements came,' he said, not turning around. 'On the counter.'

I watched the cat, Barnaby, weave through his legs, indifferent to the careful architecture of our ending. The animal had stopped sleeping on my side of the bed two months ago — had Marcus trained him? Or was Barnaby simply following the gravitational pull of whoever would remain?

'I'm moving out Friday,' I said.

Marcus's knife paused. An orange segment fell to the floor. Barnaby descended upon it with the enthusiasm he once showed me.

'That's,' Marcus cleared his throat, 'sudden.'

'Is it?' I opened the cabinet where I kept my antidepressants, next to his vitamins. We'd organized our medications alphabetically six months into marriage, back when we still believed systems could save us. 'I've been packing for weeks.'

He turned then, and I saw it: genuine surprise. The realization that my silence wasn't peace, but a gradual hollowing out. Like a tree rotting from the inside while the leaves stayed green.

'I thought we were,' he gestured vaguely, 'better.'

'We're not sick, Marcus. We're just dead.' I swallowed my vitamin C without water, letting it dissolve bitter on my tongue. 'Some things don't get better.'

The sun dipped below the horizon, and the orange light faded to gray. Barnaby finished his stolen treat and sat washing his face, efficient and self-contained. Already adapting to the new configuration of loss.

'Friday,' Marcus repeated.

'Friday.' I walked past him to the bedroom, the scent of oranges suddenly sickening. Behind me, I heard him begin to peel another clementine, the sound wet and lonely in the gathering dark.