Feeding Time

The papaya sat on the counter for three days, its skin mottling with sickly brown spots, like something dying in slow motion. Elena had bought it on impulse—Marcus used to love exotic fruit, used to peel papaya with that careful reverence he reserved for small rituals— but that was before the promotion, before the late nights, before the silence that filled their kitchen like rising water.

She dropped spinach leaves into the colander, watching water rush over them. The stems snapped with satisfying little clicks. Spinach had become her nightly rebellion: wilted greens and resentment, sautéed in olive oil and swallowed alongside whatever excuse Marcus offered tonight. Working late. Again. The client presentation. Always the fucking client presentation.

The goldfish—Marcus's anniversary gift from two years ago, 'something living to take care of together'—circled his bowl in endless loops. Elena tapped the glass. Nothing. He'd stopped responding months ago, maybe when she stopped remembering to feed him regularly, or maybe when the relationship he was supposed to symbolize began its slow asphyxiation. She sprinkled flakes anyway. They floated on the surface, ignored, like her questions about marriage, about the future, about whether they were still building something or just maintaining the ruins.

Her phone vibrated. Marcus: 'Running late. Don't wait up.'

Elena stared at the papaya, now weeping orange juice onto the counter. She sliced it open. The black seeds glistened like small accusations. She ate it standing up, juice running down her chin, sticky and sweet and somehow rotten at the edges. The spinach hissed in the pan. The goldfish bumped against the glass, frantic, suddenly alive.

She turned off the burner. The spinach collapsed into itself, dark and slick. Something in her chest did the same.

'Me too,' she whispered to the fish. 'Me too.'