The Last Orange at Midnight

Arthur sat alone in his apartment, the only sound the distant hum of a refrigerator and the occasional rustle of cable wires behind the walls. At 47, divorced three years and still adjusting to the silence, he'd become hyper-aware of the house's nighttime noises.

His cat, Barnaby, jumped onto the counter with a soft thump, eyeing the orange Arthur was peeling. The fruit's bright scent cut through the stale air of the apartment—air that always seemed to smell faintly of loneliness, no matter how many candles he lit.

"You're not getting this," Arthur murmured, separating a segment.

Barnaby let out a disappointed chirp and curled into a circle on the counter, watching Arthur with those judging yellow eyes that always made him feel like he was failing at something basic.

The television flickered to life—some cooking show Arthur had fallen asleep to hours ago. On screen, a chef demonstrated how to wilt spinach just right, her hands confident and practiced. Arthur watched, mesmerized by the simple domestic task. How had he reached an age where watching someone cook greens felt like glimpsing an alien world?

He'd tried making spinach once, early in the divorce. Bought a massive bag at the grocery store, optimistic and foolish. It had rotted in his crisper drawer, a slimy green confession that he didn't know how to feed himself anymore.

Arthur's gaze drifted to the fish bowl on the windowsill. Inside, a single goldfish floated motionless in the murky water—a housewarming gift from his sister, who'd insisted pets provided purpose. The fish had outlived her prediction, but Arthur couldn't remember the last time he'd fed it. Hell, he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten anything that didn't come from a drive-through window.

The orange segment burst between his teeth, tart and sweet. Tears pricked his eyes, and he told himself it was the citrus, it was definitely just the citrus, because Arthur had cried enough for three lifetimes.

Tomorrow, he promised himself. Tomorrow he'd feed the fish. He'd buy fresh spinach. He'd call someone—his sister, maybe, or the coworker who'd invited him to drinks six times.

But tonight, he sat in the glow of the television, eating the rest of the orange one careful segment at a time, while Barnaby purred against his arm and the goldfish drifted in its silent small sea, and the cable behind the walls whispered its secrets to anyone desperate enough to listen.