The Last Supper

The orange sat on the counter, its bright skin already beginning to dim in the humid kitchen air. Sarah had bought it three days ago, back when they still pretended things were fine. Back before she found the texts.

"You're leaving me for a woman who keeps goldfish?" Richard had laughed, bitter and incredulous, when she finally told him. "That's your upgrade?"

Sarah hadn't bothered explaining that Maya's obsession with her aquarium wasn't the point. The point was that Maya asked how Sarah's day had been. The point was that Maya didn't look through her phone while she showered.

The cat — Richard's precious rescue, the one he'd chosen over therapy — wound around Sarah's legs, purring with the casual indifference of creatures who know they're about to lose nothing. She'd miss the cat more than she'd miss Richard, she realized. The cat had never lied to her.

Outside, the palm fronds caught the last light of the day, their shadows stretching long and thin across the pool deck. Tomorrow she'd be gone. Maya was waiting. They'd planned it all — the timing, the logistics, the careful cruelty of leaving no room for reconciliation.

Richard came in, his eyes red-rimmed. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. For a moment, his palm rested against the doorframe, fingers curling around the wood like he could hold onto their life together through sheer force of grip.

"I love you," he said finally. It wasn't a question. It wasn't even an accusation. Just the saddest fact he had left.

Sarah picked up the orange and peeled it, the sharp scent filling the silence between them. "I know," she said. "That's why I have to go."