The Orange Afternoon

The cat sat on the windowsill, watching rain trace paths down the glass. It was Sarah's cat, technically, but after she left three months ago, the animal had somehow become mine. I never wanted a pet, but now this gray tortoiseshell was the only living thing that shared my mornings.

The cable bill lay on the kitchen counter, another reminder of the life we'd built together. We'd argued about that package upgrade—premium sports channels she'd wanted for baseball season. Now I paid for it每月, watching games alone in the dark, though I'd never cared about sports until her enthusiasm became my proxy for connection.

My hair had started thinning in the back. Sarah used to run her fingers through it during movies, making comments about how thick it was. The last time I saw her, she noticed the recession at my temples and said nothing. That silence hurt more than the boxes she packed.

I found the orange in the fruit bowl today, shriveled and soft where it had been perfect a week ago. Time does that—rots what you thought would keep. Just like the marriage I believed was solid, now compost.

The cat meowed, jolting me from the spiral. I realized I was standing in the kitchen at 3 AM, staring at a piece of fruit I couldn't bring myself to throw away. Sarah would laugh at that—my sentimental attachment to decaying things.

I tossed the orange into the garbage. The cat watched, then turned back to the window, as if waiting for something to return through the rain. I turned off the kitchen light and walked to the bedroom, leaving the cable box flickering with highlights from a game I'd never understand alone.