The Last Supper of Strangers

Mara stood at her kitchen counter, her hands trembling as she peeled the orange. Its citrus scent hit her—a sudden memory of Sarah's apartment three years ago, before everything fell apart. Before the betrayal over the promotion, the leaked emails, the silent treatment that stretched into months.

She placed the orange segments on a plate beside the spinach salad. Sarah always called spinach "nature's vitamin," a joke between them during their broke twenties when they couldn't afford real groceries. Now Mara could afford anything, and she had nothing.

Her cat, Barnaby, wove between her legs, purring. He'd been Sarah's cat originally—a parting gift when Sarah moved to London. "He'll keep you company," she'd said, the same week she sent Mara's confidential project draft to their boss.

The doorbell rang.

Sarah stood in the hallway, thinner than Mara remembered. Her eyes had new lines around them.

"I have pancreatic cancer," Sarah said without preamble. "Stage four. Three months, maybe four."

Mara stepped back. "Why are you here?"

"Because I'm tired of hating myself. And I thought maybe you were tired of hating me too."

They ate in silence. The spinach tasted bitter. The orange was too sweet.

"You stole my work," Mara said finally.

"I did."

"Why?"

"Because I was thirty-seven and I'd never been first at anything. You were always first—better grades, better ideas, better life. I wanted to be you for once." Sarah's voice cracked. "And now I'm going to die, and I've never been myself."

Mara looked at her friend—the woman who had been her maid of honor, her roommate, her mirror. Who had hurt her more deeply than anyone ever had.

"I don't forgive you," Mara said.

"I know." Sarah stood up. "I didn't come here for forgiveness. I came here to say I'm sorry. And to ask if you'll take care of Barnaby."

Mara watched her walk to the door, the ghost of who she used to be. "Stay."

Sarah paused.

"Stay for dinner," Mara said. "And tell me everything you never became."

The orange segments sat between them, bright as forgiveness, bitter as regret.