The Orange Peel

Marcus's fedora sat on the coat rack, its brown felt slightly crushed at the crown—the way it always looked after he'd been driving with the windows down. But tonight, something caught the light in the entryway. A fragment of orange peel, bright against the dark wool, curled like a secret against the brim.

"How was the lab?" he called from the kitchen, his tone too casual.

"Long." I hung up my coat, my fingers hovering over that scrap of peel. In my research, I'd spent months studying how vitamin deficiencies manifested in the body—the slow erosion, the way things fell apart from within. I knew the signs.

Marcus appeared in the doorway, holding two glasses of wine. He'd showered; his hair was damp, his shirt fresh. But he couldn't wash away the scent of citrus that clung to him, couldn't erase the memory of the orange grove where his colleague maintained her family's estate. He'd mentioned it once, months ago: the blood oranges, the winter harvest, the way she always brought fruit back to the city.

"You took your vitamins," I said, gesturing to the supplement organizer on the counter. His daily ritual, the one I'd insisted on when his bloodwork showed borderline deficiencies. The irony burned—how carefully we tended to the body while the soul rotted.

"Elena." He set down the glasses, their stems clinking softly against the granite. "Let me explain."

"There's nothing to explain." I picked up the hat, the orange peel fluttering to the floor. "You're deficient. That's all."

He reached for me, but I stepped back. In that moment, I understood something my research had never taught me: some depletions can't be cured with supplements, some gaps too wide to bridge. The body heals itself, given time and the right building blocks. Hearts don't work that way.

I placed the hat back on the rack, already planning which vitamins to pack for my own recovery. This time, I'd be the one who drove away with the windows down.