Fruit Flies at Dawn

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin mottled with brown spots that reminded her of the bruises on David's arms the last time she saw him three weeks ago. She'd meant to eat it when it was perfect, but perfect had slipped away, just like everything else.

Avery wound around her legs, his orange tabby fur sticking to her black yoga pants. He was David's cat, technically, though David had never been the one feeding him at dawn, or cleaning his litter box, or noticing when his purrs sounded more like rattles.

"You're going to be the death of me," she told the cat, slicing into the rotting fruit. The flesh inside was too soft, fermented already. Small fruit flies rose like spirits from the flesh.

She'd started running after David left — not away from anything, just running. Five miles every morning before work, her sneakers hitting the pavement in rhythm with her fracturing thoughts. Her coworkers asked if she was training for something. She wanted to tell them she was training for the rest of her life without him.

The first flash of lightning illuminated the kitchen, stark and unforgiving. The storm had been building for hours, the air heavy and electric, much like the weeks before David finally walked out. He'd said she was too much — too intense, too demanding, too present. Now she ran until her lungs burned, proving him right.

Avery hissed at the thunder that followed, diving under the sofa. She stood at the window watching the rain sheet down, thinking how strange it was that she'd kept the cat but not the apartment, kept the early morning ritual but not the man who'd never woken up for it anyway. She tossed the spoiled papaya into the garbage, the sticky juice coating her fingers like regret.

Tomorrow she would run again. Tomorrow the papaya would be gone. But for now, she watched lightning split the sky and understood, finally, that some illuminations only come when everything else has already broken.