Expiration Dates

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin mottled with brown spots like bruises that wouldn't heal. Three days past ripe, maybe four. Elena had bought it during that brief phase of their relationship when they'd both pretended to care about antioxidants and exotic fruits and breakfast together.

Now it was just her. And the rotting fruit.

Her iPhone buzzed against the countertop, lighting up with his name again. Marcus. She watched the screen pulse to life, then dark, then light again. Four missed calls in twenty minutes. He'd never been this persistent before, not even when they were together, not even that night she'd told him she was pregnant and then wasn't, all in the span of forty-eight hours.

The spinach in the refrigerator was probably wilting too. Everything in this apartment was slowly returning to its natural state of decay without her attention. Without their attention.

She slid open the glass door and stepped onto the balcony. The dog, Marcus's golden retriever, was downstairs in the courtyard where he'd been staying since the breakup. Buster lifted his head at the sound of her door, tail thumping a familiar rhythm against the pavement. She'd told herself she was done with the dog, done with the reminders, but she'd been bringing him toys and treats anyway. Some bonds didn't dissolve just because you signed papers.

Her phone buzzed again. A text this time: "I'm at the hospital."

Elena's fingers hovered over the screen. The papaya inside was softening, collapsing under its own weight. Nothing lasted forever — not fruit, not relationships, not even the ache in your chest when someone called at 3 AM with news that rearranged your entire universe.

She typed back: "On my way."