The Orange at the Edge

The retirement community pool sat empty at dusk, its surface still except for the occasional ripple from the wind. Elena sat on the plastic lounge chair, her fingers pressing small indentations into an orange she'd taken from the dining hall. She wasn't hungry. She just needed something to hold.

"They're starting a pool," Arthur said from the adjacent chair. He was ninety-two and still wore suits to dinner. "On which of us goes next."

Elena peeled the orange in one long strip, the citrus scent sharp against the chlorine that hung perpetual in the air. "That's morbid."

"It's something to do." He adjusted his glasses. "I put fifty on Mildred. Her heart's been erratic since October."

"You're a terrible man."

"I'm a bored one." Arthur gestured toward the pool. "You know, my wife drowned in a pool like this. Not this one. Some condo in Florida. She had a stroke and just slipped under. The water was so clear you could see her at the bottom, hair fanned out like she was sleeping."

Elena stopped peeling. The orange half in her hand looked suddenly obscene, its wet pulp exposed. "Arthur."

"What I'm saying is"—he turned to her, and for the first time she saw how tired he really was—"there are worse ways to go than being bet on by your friends. At least they'd remember you as someone worth wagering over."

Elena looked at the water, dark now, reflecting the first stars. She thought of her husband, dead seven years, how he'd simply not woken up one morning. No drama, no pool, no stories worth telling at dinner. Just absence, quiet and absolute.

She held out the orange. "Want a piece?"

Arthur took it. His hands shook as he brought it to his mouth. They sat like that as night settled, eating an orange in the dark by the empty pool, making something of themselves while they still could.