The Orange Peel at Sunset

Marcus stood on his balcony peeling an orange, the citrus scent cutting through the stale air of his apartment. At forty-two, he'd finally started taking vitamin D supplements—his doctor's orders after the blood work came back with numbers that screamed 'sedentary office worker.'

Inside, his phone buzzed. Another email from Richard, the corporate VP with his bull-headed certainty and emails that always ended with 'Let's circle back.' Richard had spent three hours today in the boardroom, weaving elaborate baseball metaphors about 'stepping up to the plate' and 'hitting home runs' while the company quietly prepared another round of layoffs.

Marcus's mother had loved baseball. She'd kept score on actual paper, neat little grids in pencil, teaching him that the beauty was in the ritual, not the winning. She'd died three months ago, and he'd found her vitamin organizer on the kitchen counter—Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday compartments still full.

The orange's flesh was impossibly bright against the gray light of November. He thought about Sarah, the colleague he'd almost kissed at the holiday party last year. She'd worn that orange silk dress that caught every lamp in the room, and they'd talked about their parents, about the particular loneliness of being the responsible child. He'd gone home alone instead. He always went home alone.

'Bullshit,' he said aloud to the empty balcony. He typed his resignation email—no baseball metaphors, no corporate speak, just 'I'm done.' Then he called Sarah.

'Orange silk dress,' he said when she answered. 'That party, last December.'

Silence. Then: 'I thought you'd never call.'

He ate the orange section by section, letting the juice stick to his fingers. For the first time in years, something in his life felt real.