Everything That's Ripe

I'm standing at the kitchen island, my fingers pressing into the flesh of the papaya, feeling the slight give that means it's perfectly ripe. The juice stains my fingertips—sticky, sweet, the way everything used to be before the rot set in.

"The dog's been whining again," Michael says, not looking up from his phone. "Since when do you care about the dog?" The words are out before I can stop them, sharp and sudden as a glass breaking.

I met Michael when I was twenty-four, adrift after grad school, temping at a marketing firm where he was already climbing the ladder. I was impressed by his certainty, the way he moved through life as if the path had been laid out for him. The cat—a scrawny, judgmental rescue named October—came with me into the relationship. The dog—a golden retriever with more optimism than sense—was his, acquired during his bachelor phase as some kind of domestic performance.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like." I turn to the refrigerator, pulling out the wilted spinach I bought three days ago. It's begun to turn slimy at the edges, neglected. I think about all the things I've let slide these past six months. "Since when do you care about anything in this house that isn't yours?"

The silence stretches. I can hear October padding into the kitchen, her claws clicking softly on the hardwood. She jumps onto the counter beside me, but I don't shoo her off. Michael would. Michael has rules about where the animals are allowed.

"You're being dramatic," he says, finally. "Is this about the promotion again?"

"It's not about the promotion."

"Then what?"

The papaya halves sit exposed on the cutting board, their black seeds glistening. I think about the first papaya he brought home, five years ago, from some specialty market he'd discovered. He'd been so proud, so convinced that introducing me to exotic fruits was some kind of gift. As if my palate needed upgrading. As if everything about me needed upgrading.

"I'm leaving," I say.

The dog whines from the living room, sensing something.

"You're what?"

"I'm taking the cat. You can keep the dog. You always wanted him anyway."

Michael laughs, disbelieving. "You're serious? You're leaving over—over what exactly? Because I didn't notice the spinach was going bad?"

"Because I'm tired of being the person who notices everything while you notice nothing." I scrape the papaya seeds into the trash. "Because I'm tired of being managed."

"You're blowing this out of proportion. We can talk about this later."

"There's nothing to talk about."

I don't wait for his response. I don't wait for anything. I just go to the bedroom, pull a suitcase from under the bed, and begin folding my life into smaller and smaller squares. October follows me, jumping onto the bed as if she's known this was coming all along.

The apartment is quiet when I leave. Michael is still in the kitchen, standing in front of the papaya, probably waiting for me to come back and apologize like I always do.

I walk out with my suitcase and the cat carrier. The dog is still in the living room, watching me go with those trusting eyes. I feel a pang of guilt, but not enough to turn around.

Some things get rescued. Others get left behind. I reach up to my jaw, fingers tracing the tender swelling beneath my skin, and step out into the uncertain brightness of the street.