Digital Sunset

The papaya sat on the granite countertop, its orange flesh glistening under fluorescent kitchen lights. Sarah had bought it yesterday, during one of those feverish attempts to transform herself into someone who didn't eat takeout three nights a week. Someone who cared about things like antioxidants and self-improvement.

Mark hadn't noticed. He hadn't noticed much since the promotion, his face permanently illuminated by the blue glow of his iPhone as he scrolled through work emails at dinner, during movies, in bed.

"You should eat," Sarah said, slicing through the fruit's tender flesh. "It's good for you. Full of vitamins."

"In a minute," Mark muttered, thumb flicking upward. "Just need to respond to this client."

The lie hung between them, familiar and suffocating. He'd been saying "in a minute" for three years. She'd been waiting, performing the role of the supportive partner while hollowing herself out like a carved pumpkin.

Sarah's phone buzzed—a message from David, the architect she'd met at that conference last month. Just a coffee invitation, innocent enough. But her pulse quickened traitorously.

"Who's that?" Mark didn't look up.

"Nobody."

The papaya tasted like compromise, like all the small surrenders that accumulated until you no longer recognized yourself. She watched Mark's face, the way the screen's reflection made his eyes look dead.

"I'm going out," she said, setting down the fork.

"Where?"

"To get some actual vitamins. Since you're not hungry."

David was waiting at the corner café. His phone sat face-down on the table.

"I like papaya," he said when she mentioned the neglected fruit. "My grandmother used to grow it in her backyard."

Something in his chest expanded—a tiny, dangerous hope. The orange light of sunset filtered through the window. For the first time in years, Sarah felt hungry.