The Last Orange

The biopsy results sat on the kitchen counter, next to a bowl of oranges. Marcus stood there, his dog Bella pressing her warm side against his leg, the way she'd done every morning for eleven years. He should feel something. Fear, maybe. Relief. Instead, he felt like a zombie moving through someone else's life.

He picked up an orange, peeled it slowly. The citrus spray hit his nose—sharp, bright, violently alive. At fifty-two, he'd spent three decades climbing ladders, tightening cables, connecting buildings that would outlive him. His hands, scarred from copper wire and conduit, were steady now as they'd ever been.

Bella whined, her muzzle greying around the eyes. She knew something was wrong. Dogs always did.

"It's probably nothing," Sarah had said yesterday, already rehearsing the reassurance she'd give at his funeral. Their marriage had been reduced to these exchanges—crisis management between Netflix binges and takeout.

Marcus took a bite of the orange. The juice exploded, bitter and sweet against his tongue. For the first time in months, he tasted something.

He looked at the coaxial cable snaked along the baseboard, carrying images of other people's lives into their home. Zombie shows. Cooking competitions. People pretending to be alive while he sat on the couch, dying by degrees.

Bella nudged his hand. He knelt, burying his face in her fur. She smelled like dirt and loyalty and walks they'd taken together before his back started hurting, before Sarah started sleeping in the guest room, before he'd become this thing that moved and spoke but didn't quite exist.

The biopsy would wait. The orange was already gone, nothing but rind on his tongue.

"Come on, girl," he whispered, and for the first time in years, Marcus decided to unplug.