The Orange Peel

David stood in the kitchen of their apartment, peeling an orange with surgical precision. The citrus scent filled the silence between them like a third presence. Sarah sat at the island, her iPhone face-up, screen lighting up every thirty seconds with notifications she ignored. cable news played muted on the television in the living room, scrolling tickers of a bull market that had somehow survived everything except their marriage.

"You're doing it again," she said, not looking up from her phone. "That thing where you pretend everything's fine."

"I'm peeling an orange, Sarah. It's not a commentary on the state of our union." He placed the fruit on a plate, every bitter white thread removed. He'd always been meticulous like that. It was why he was good at his job – private equity, finding value where others saw mess, restructuring companies the way he'd tried to restructure their relationship through sheer force of will.

"Mark thinks we should sell," she said.

The name hit him like physical violence. Mark – her coworker, the fox she'd been working late with for six months. Cunning, smooth, exactly the kind of man David had spent his career outmaneuvering in boardrooms. The irony wasn't lost on him.

"The apartment?" David asked. "Or just me out of it?"

She finally met his eyes. "David."

"Right. Both."

He looked at the orange sections on the plate, perfect and exposed. He remembered buying the fruit at a bodega on their first date, seventeen years ago. She'd made some joke about how he ate oranges like they were precious commodities. He'd been so charmed by her rough edges, her willingness to say exactly what she thought. Now he was just another man who couldn't give her what she needed, not because he didn't want to, but because he'd forgotten how.

"The market's up tomorrow," she said, almost gentle. "You should get some sleep."

He nodded, unable to speak around the thickening in his throat. In the morning, he'd go to the office and make decisions that affected thousands of jobs, millions of dollars. He'd be brilliant, decisive, respected. Tonight, he'd eat this perfect orange alone in a bed that suddenly felt too large, listening to her pack her things in the next room, preparing to become someone else's problem to solve.