The Last Orange

The coaxial cable lay frayed behind the television set like a dead snake, its silver innards exposed to the dust bunnies beneath the entertainment center. Maya had been meaning to replace it for months, ever since the picture started pixelating during her mother's FaceTime calls. Now, with David's boxes stacked in the hallway, the cable seemed like the perfect metaphor for their relationship: damaged, barely functional, and something she'd been too tired to fix.

Her goldfish—a rescue from her ex-boyfriend's rushed move-out—circled its bowl in the corner of the living room. Leonard. She'd named him after the physicist, though mostly he just floated and ate, his three-second memory perhaps a blessing in this apartment. David had left him behind, along with most of his dignity and a singular orange sock.

Maya wasn't running late anymore. That was the strange thing about the breakup—suddenly she had all the time in the world. Her commute to the marketing firm had lost its frantic edge. She walked to work now, past the palm trees that lined downtown's gentrified streets, their fronds drooping like the mustaches of weary old men.

"You seem different," her boss had noted that morning, staring at Maya over the rim of her lavender latte. "Calm."

Maya had shrugged. "Personal growth."

She sat on her balcony now, peeling the last orange from the bowl David had stocked before he left. The spray of citrus hit her face as she tore into the rind, sharp and bright against the gray evening. Leonard swam toward the glass, his fish lips parting and closing, parting and closing, as if trying to tell her something profound about the nature of attachment.

She'd fallen in love with David's ambition first—that relentless, clawing drive that had propelled him from a shared studio apartment to a corner office with a view. But ambition had a hunger, and eventually it had started consuming everything else. Weekends became conference calls. Dinner dates became networking opportunities. Their anniversary had been interrupted by a cable news interview about some startup accelerator he'd joined.

Maya squeezed the orange, watching the juice run down her fingers, sticky and sweet. She thought about the frayed cable behind the television, about how easy it would be to replace it, how cheap and simple the fix would be. Some things weren't worth salvaging. Some things you just had to cut loose and start fresh.

She stood up, walked to the kitchen, and tossed the orange peel into the trash. Tomorrow she'd call the cable company. Tomorrow she'd buy Leonard a bigger tank. Tomorrow she'd ask out the barista who always gave her an extra shot of espresso for free.

Tonight, she sat on her balcony and watched the palm trees sway against the purple sky, feeling the beginning of something new press against her ribs like a second heartbeat.