Expiration Dates

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin mottled with brown spots, a map of forgotten intentions. Sarah had bought it three days ago—back when she still believed in five-year plans and vitamin supplements and the myth that marriage could be cured with fresh fruit and optimism.

Now she stood at 2 a.m. in their pristine kitchen, her iphone glowing in her hand like a accusation. Mark's notification continued to ping softly: *You up?* from someone whose name Sarah didn't recognize but whose profile picture showed a woman laughing, head thrown back, the kind of unselfconscious joy that Sarah hadn't felt in years.

The spinach in the crisper drawer had already gone slimy, much like her resolve to confront him. She'd planned a speech—something about dignity and self-respect—but now, running her thumb over the smooth glass of the phone, she found she couldn't remember why any of it mattered.

"You're still awake."

Mark's voice behind her made her jump. He wore boxers and exhaustion, his hair standing up in ways that used to charm her. Now she just felt tired.

"Your phone," she said, not turning around. "It keeps pinging."

Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Then: "It's not what you think."

"What do I think?" she asked, finally facing him. "That the woman texting you at 2 a.m. is your vitamin dealer? That she's somehow connected to your sudden interest in 'working late'?"

His shoulders slumped. "I was going to tell you."

"Tell me what? That we're expired too?" She gestured at the rotting papaya, the wilted spinach, the life they'd built together that had somehow spoiled without either of them noticing. "That we're past our sell-by date?"

"Sarah—"

"Just go," she said, and was surprised by how calm she felt. "Take your phone. Take your vitamins. I'll see a lawyer in the morning."

As he left the room, his phone pinged again. Sarah looked at the papaya one last time, then dropped it in the trash. Some things, once they start to rot, can't be saved.