The Last Room Service

Marissa pressed her palm against the cold window of room 412, watching the Miami rain blur the ocean into gray. Thirty-nine years old, assistant vice president of nothing consequential, and here she was on a Tuesday that should have been her honeymoon. The cable on the nightstand lay coiled like a dead snake—HDMI, she thought, or maybe her own life: High Definition Misery.

She'd ordered room service three times since checking in yesterday. Each time, they'd forgotten something. This time, just an orange. She'd wanted to peel something, wanted the ritual of it, wanted the sting of citric acid on her fingers.

"Your orange, Ms. Chen." The room service waiter was younger than she'd expected—maybe twenty-five, with an exhausted smile that didn't reach his eyes. He set the silver bowl on the desk, and their fingers brushed for a second too long.

"I'm Marissa," she said, surprising herself.

"David." He hesitated, then: "You've ordered a lot of oranges."

"It's the only thing that makes sense anymore."

He laughed, surprised. "I get off at eleven. There's this Cuban place down the block—best ropa vieja in Miami. If you needed... a friend."

The word hung between them. Friend. Three months ago, she would have said no automatically. Two weeks ago, she would have said yes out of desperation. Today, she looked at the orange she'd finally peeled, its segments bright against the hotel room's muted elegance. Looked at the cable still dark on the nightstand. Looked at David, who was waiting but not pressuring, who saw her loneliness without making it something to fix.

"Yes," Marissa said. "But as friends. I'm not ready for more than friends."

"Friends works." David's smile finally reached his eyes. "Friends is a good place to start."

Outside, the rain had stopped. Through the window, the first palm fronds caught the morning light. She picked up an orange segment, tasted it—sharp, sweet, complicated. Exactly what she needed right now.