The Leftover Season

Margaret sat on the couch that still smelled vaguely of him—a mix of cedar and the expensive cologne she'd bought for his birthday three years ago. On her lap, his orange tabby cat purred with an indifference that felt almost cruel. Buster had been David's cat, really. David had rescued him from that shelter behind the old baseball stadium downtown, back when they were still the kind of couple who rescued things together.

The baseball game flickered on the television—some playoff match David would have cared about. Margaret had never learned the rules properly. She'd just liked watching David watch it, the way his face went slack and peaceful, like a child's.

On the coffee table, her iPhone lit up again. Another work email, probably. Or her mother checking in, gentle and worried in that way that made Margaret want to scream. She'd stopped answering three days ago.

She peeled the orange she'd been holding, its bright flesh giving way under her thumbnail. Citrus scent sharp in the quiet. The juice ran down her wrist, sticky and sweet, and she thought about the morning David left. How he'd said he needed space, to find himself, as if she'd been the one obscuring him.

"You'll be fine," he'd said, like it was a promise.

Margaret wasn't fine. She was forty-two, suddenly alone in a house that felt too large, with a cat who tolerated her and a life that felt borrowed. The orange segments were bright against her pale skin. She ate them one by one, letting the juice sting her lips.

Buster jumped down from her lap and padded toward the bedroom—David's old study, now filled with boxes she couldn't bring herself to unpack. Margaret watched him go. Then she picked up her iPhone, scrolled through her contacts, and almost called her sister. Almost.

Instead, she turned up the volume on the baseball game. The crowd roared. Someone hit something important. For a moment, in the noise of it, she didn't feel so alone. Then the inning ended, and the house settled back into its waiting. The orange peels lay scattered on the coffee table like torn parentheses around nothing at all.