The Orange Sunset

Miriam pulled the wool hat down over her silver-streaked hair, the brim catching the last light of the October afternoon. Three years since David died, and she still wore his hat to the cemetery. It smelled of him— cedar and stale tobacco and the particular sweetness of the man who had held her every night for thirty-seven years.

A dog—some stray terrier mix with matted gold fur—had taken to waiting for her by the gate. Today it sat patiently, tail thumping a slow rhythm against the wrought iron. Miriam had never owned a dog. David had been allergic, or so he'd claimed. She wondered now if that had been another evasion, like his silent Friday evenings, his retreat into the garage.

She sat on their bench and peeled the orange she'd brought. The spray of citrus hit the cold air, sharp and bright. David had loved oranges. He'd eaten them greedily, juice running down his chin, laughing at her precision with the knife.

'You're too neat, Miri,' he'd say. 'Let it be messy sometimes.'

She wasn't neat anymore. The house had accumulated three years of dust in corners she couldn't reach. The dog nudged her hand with a wet nose. She gave it a section of orange. It ate delicately, unlike David.

'This is ridiculous,' she said aloud to the dog. 'I'm talking to a dog at my husband's grave.'

The dog looked at her with ancient eyes. Maybe it had belonged to someone once. Maybe it had loved and lost and waited by a different gate.

Miriam realized suddenly that David had left her something after all—not the hat, not the grief, but this particular Thursday afternoon, this orange, this dog who had decided she was worth waiting for. She took off the hat and let the wind touch her hair. The dog rested its head on her knee.

'Messy,' she whispered.

The sun slipped below the trees, painting the sky that bruised orange that comes just before true dark. Miriam fed the dog another section and stayed until the color faded completely, until the world became something she might recognize tomorrow.