Expiration Dates

Maya stood in the produce aisle, comparing papayas. Two years after her divorce, she still couldn't break the habit of buying for two. The papaya would rot before she finished it alone, just like her marriage had—sweet at first, then quietly fermenting into something she couldn't swallow.

Her iPhone buzzed. A message from Ethan: "Coffee? Need to tell you something."

Ethan had been her friend since college, the constant through three apartments, two promotions, and one spectacularly failed relationship. They'd never crossed that line. She'd told herself it was because they valued the friendship too much. The truth was simpler: she'd been terrified of ruining the only thing that never let her down.

She dropped the papaya into her cart and moved to the greens, reaching for a bag of spinach. Her phone buzzed again.

"Actually, never mind. Forget I said anything."

Maya froze. The spinach bag felt cold and ridiculous in her hand. She'd spent thirty-eight years waiting—for the right moment, for clarity, for someone to choose her without hesitation. Meanwhile, life rotted in her crisper drawer.

She called him. It rang four times.

"You can't never mind," she said when he picked up. "Not with me."

Silence. Then, softly: "I'm leaving the city. Job in Singapore."

The spinach slipped from her fingers. "When?"

"Two weeks."

Maya leaned against her cart, surrounded by strangers choosing dinner. "I could come over. Tonight. We could—"

"Maya."

"I have a papaya," she heard herself say. "And spinach. I was going to make that salad you like."

He laughed, tired and kind. "You hate papaya."

"I was learning to like it."

"Come over," he said. "But just as your friend. Please."

She bought the papaya anyway. Some expiration dates you chose. Others chose you.