The Sunday After Everything

Mira found the cat curled on her side of the bed, a territorial statement wrapped in calico fur. Bruno hadn't slept there in three weeks—not since the promotion, not since he started leaving his wedding ring on the nightstand like an afterthought.

The television sputtered where a coaxial cable had worked loose. Blue and gray static danced across the screen, illuminating the breakfast dishes neither of them had bothered to clear. Their Sunday morning ritual—padel at the club, then brunch—had dissolved without discussion, like so many things between them lately.

She sliced an orange, the citrus spray sharp against the morning quiet. Bruno used to peel them for her, making a terrible joke about how he'd marry her all over again just for the way she ate oranges. Now he sent messages that read like business correspondence: *Running late. Don't wait up.*

The pool outside their apartment building glimmered through the sliding doors. Their neighbor, elderly and arthritic, swam laps every morning at dawn. Mira used to find it inspiring—this woman moving through water despite her body's betrayal. Now it just looked like endless repetition, back and forth, getting nowhere.

Her phone buzzed. A calendar reminder: *Couples' counseling, 3 PM.* They'd missed the last two. Bruno had cited an emergency merger; Mira had stopped rescheduling.

The cat jumped to the floor, tail twitching. In the quiet, Mira finally said it aloud: "I think we're done."

The static on the television seemed to grow louder. She realized she was swimming—no, drowning—in a life she'd built around someone who was already gone. The orange sat forgotten on its cutting board. Somewhere beyond the window, the neighbor kept swimming, relentless and alone.

Mira stood up. She would call the therapist. She would cancel the court time. The cat followed her into the kitchen, winding between her legs as she reached for her phone.