The Orange Peel

Miriam stood before her bathroom mirror, tweezers hovering over a single, defiant chin hair that had appeared overnight. At forty-seven, her body was becoming a stranger—one that grew hair where it shouldn't and lost it where it should. Outside, November rain streaked the window like tears she refused to cry.

"You're being a bear about this," David had said that morning, his voice sharp with impatience. They'd been arguing about his mother's move to assisted living for weeks. He called her stubborn; she called it necessary. The word hung in the air between them like something rotten.

She plucked the hair. A sharp, bright pain.

In the kitchen, the fruit bowl overflowed with oranges David had bought yesterday—always buying too much, always forgetting. Their vibrant, cheerful skin seemed to mock the gray atmosphere of their marriage lately. Miriam picked one up, her thumb pressing into the rind until the essential oil sprayed, sharp and citrusy, cutting through the stale air.

She remembered how he used to peel oranges for her in college, sectioning them perfectly, feeding her segments by finger. How long since he'd done anything so tender?

The front door opened. David's footsteps, then silence. He found her in the kitchen, orange in hand, tears finally spilling over.

"I'm sorry," he said, crossing the room. "I've been bearing this alone, and I shouldn't have." His voice cracked. "I'm scared, Mir."

She looked at him—really looked—at the new lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders had curled inward under the weight of becoming an orphan. She peeled the orange, breaking the skin, the scent rising between them like an offering.

"We'll bear it together," she said, and pressed a segment into his palm.

His fingers closed around it, around her. The orange juice was sticky and sweet on both their hands. For the first time in months, something in the kitchen felt alive.