The Orange Peel

Claire's hair fell out in clumps that October, each handful like autumn leaves she couldn't catch. The chemotherapy packets sat on their bathroom counter—neon **orange** capsules that promised to kill what was killing her, though everyone knew it was a long shot even with the **vitamin** supplements and hopeful speeches.

Three months in, she met Elias at the hospital cafeteria. He was wearing a suit that had seen better decades, eyes sharp and clever as a **fox**. His wife was in the oncology ward too—Stage 4 pancreatic, they both said, like it was weather they were discussing. They started taking coffee breaks together, then lunch. Then he started driving her to appointments when Mark couldn't get away from work.

"You're not eating," Elias said one afternoon, watching her push institutional Jell-O around a red plastic plate. He reached across the table and tucked a stray hair behind her ear. His fingers were warm, electric. "You're fading, Claire."

That night, Mark found them in the hospital parking garage. She was pressed against Elias's car door, his mouth on her neck, both of them desperate and starving for something that wasn't death, wasn't hospitals, wasn't the smell of antiseptic and dying things.

Mark didn't yell. He just watched, his face crumbling like wet paper, before walking away into the gray rain.

Claire died two weeks later. The obituary listed Mark as her loving husband, made no mention of Elias, who sat in the back row at her funeral wearing a suit that had seen better decades and crying into a handkerchief.

Sometimes, late at night, Mark stands in their backyard and stares at the pond where they used to feed koi together. He throws **orange** peels into the **water**, watching them float and sink, thinking how strange it is that something so bright can carry so much bitterness underneath.