The Orange Hour

Margot found her husband's cat sitting on his pillow, purring with a possessiveness that made her stomach turn. Barnaby had been dead three weeks, and still the animal—this judgmental tuxedo she'd secretly despised—refused to acknowledge her grief.

She'd discovered the vitamin D deficiency in his medical files, tucked between discharge papers and autopsy reports. Severe deficiency. Contributing factor. As if his depression could be reduced to a missing nutrient, as if she could've fixed him with supplements and sunshine.

On the dresser sat his hat—a worn fedora he'd worn to their wedding, to job interviews, to Sunday brunches with her parents who'd never quite approved. She'd packed everything else in boxes, but the hat remained. A totem she couldn't yet touch.

Her iphone buzzed. A dating app notification: Someone new matches your profile. She'd downloaded it on a whim—or perhaps desperation—at 2 AM, fueled by wine and the crushing silence of a queen bed. Her thumb hovered.

Barnaby had left her an orange on the kitchen counter the morning he died. A small, perfect thing, radiant against the granite. She'd thrown it out yesterday, finally. The rot had spread soft and brown beneath its bright skin, revealing its decay only when she'd touched it.

Some mornings she woke convinced she could smell it—that citrus sweetness turned sick.

The cat meowed, jumping from the bed and padding toward the kitchen. Margot followed. She opened a cabinet and shook a bottle of vitamins into her palm. Stared at them. Swallowed three dry.

Her phone buzzed again. She deleted the app.

The orange hour light hit the kitchen floor. Tomorrow she'd pack the hat. Tomorrow she'd call the shelter about the cat. Tomorrow she'd buy fresh fruit.

But tonight she sat on the cold tiles and let the cat weave through her legs, purring like a small, persistent engine, and allowed herself to miss everything all at once.