What Remains in the Kitchen

The vitamin bottle sat on the counter like a small accusation. Vitamin D3, 5000 IU, prescribed by the doctor who'd looked at her bloodwork with that particular brand of professional concern. Sarah stared at it while the coffee brewed, thinking about how three years ago, Mark had bought matching bottles. His sat next to hers, a domestic harmony she'd found touching in its mundane way.

Now his was gone, along with the rest of him.

Not gone-gone. Just... elsewhere. His hat still hung on the hook by the door — that ridiculous fedora he'd picked up in New Orleans on a weekend they'd both pretended was saving their marriage. The leather was creased exactly where his fingers had gripped the brim. She hadn't moved it. Couldn't.

The goldfish — Chester, named with Mark's penchant for terrible puns — swam in lazy circles in his bowl on the windowsill. Sarah had threatened to flush him after the fight about whose turn it was to clean the tank. Mark had scooped Chester into a temporary container, scrubbed the bowl until his hands smelled of bleach and determination, then made some joke about how they were both just swimming in circles anyway.

She reached for an orange in the fruit bowl, her fingers brushing against the papaya she'd bought on impulse yesterday. It was too soft, speckled with dark spots that seemed to have appeared overnight. Everything rotted eventually. Even the things you thought would last.

Her phone buzzed. Mark's name lit up the screen: "Coming by Saturday for my things."

Sarah typed a response, deleted it, typed again. Finally: "The fedora's on the hook. Chester stays with me."

She sent it before she could second-guess. The orange peeled easily under her fingers, releasing sharp citrus scent that made her eyes water. Some things, she realized, you got to choose. The rest was just what remained in the kitchen when the marriage ended.