The Weight of What Remains
The orange rolled across the counter before she could catch it, bouncing off the edge of the floor with a dull thud. Maya watched it go, too tired to bend down. The spinach sat limp in the colander, dark green leaves already wilting in the oppressive heat of the kitchen.
"They're saying another round of layoffs," David said from the living room. His voice floated in through the doorway, accompanied by the relentless drone of cable news. "That VP—what's his name? The one who looks like a fox, all narrow eyes and careful smiles—he's been in meetings with HR all week."
Maya rinsed the spinach, her fingers numbing in the cold water. She'd been bearing the weight of this place for three years now: the mortgage, David's freelance gigs that never quite materialized into income, the slow erosion of the person she used to be. The bear in the room, so to speak—though she'd stopped saying it out loud months ago.
"I'm making risotto," she said instead. "With that spinach and orange zest. Remember when we used to cook together?"
David's response was lost in a commercial break. He'd checked out of this marriage the same way he watched everything now: passively, from a distance, letting the narrative wash over him without ever participating.
The orange was bruised when she finally retrieved it, but she zested it anyway. The bright citrus smell cut through the stale air of their life together, sharp and almost painful. She stirred the rice, watched it absorb the wine, thought about the fox at work—how he'd looked right through her in the elevator this morning, like she was already gone.
"Maya?" David called. "Did you hear me?"
She turned off the burner. The risotto was done, but she wasn't hungry anymore.
"No," she said. "I didn't hear you."
The cable news droned on. Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm started. Maya stood in the kitchen surrounded by the ingredients of a life that no longer fit, and realized she'd been ready to leave for a long time now. The only thing left was to say it out loud.