The Weight of Wet Things

Elena stood in the cramped bathroom of her ex-husband's apartment, running her fingers through her hair—which she'd dyed a defiant orange the morning she found the texts. The color had faded to something softer, almost apologetic, much like herself.

"You're doing what?" Marcus had asked, palm pressed against his forehead when she told him she was leaving. Not him. Just the city. The life they'd built together like a house of cards in a windstorm.

Now she was back, three years later, for his mother's funeral. The irony wasn't lost on her.

She turned on the faucet and watched the water spiral down the drain, carrying with it the remnants of her makeup, her composure, the carefully constructed armor she'd worn all day. People kept asking how she was doing. Fine, she said. Running a business now. A small boutique in Portland that sold sustainable clothing. They nodded, impressed, as if starting over was something to celebrate rather than survive.

In the living room, she could hear Marcus's new girlfriend—Carly? Chloe?—laughing at something his sister said. The sound was bright and sharp, like broken glass.

Elena's hand trembled as she reached for her purse. Inside, her palm found the cool surface of the orange she'd grabbed from the funeral reception. She'd been too nauseous to eat it then, and she was too nauseous to eat it now. But she held it like a talisman, recalling how she'd sat on fire escapes in her twenties, peeling oranges with stained fingers, making plans that seemed possible then.

She looked in the mirror. The woman staring back had fine lines around her eyes and something older in her posture. Not broken, exactly. Just worn smooth, like a stone in a riverbed.

The water was still running. She should turn it off. conserve resources. Marcus always said that. But for once, she let it waste.