Fruit of Betrayal

Maria sat across from me at the kitchen table, slicing through a papaya with deliberate precision. The knife made a soft thwuck sound against the cutting board, rhythmic and hypnotic. I'd known her for fifteen years—since we were both broke grad students sharing a drafty apartment in Chicago. She'd been the friend who held my hair back when my father died, who stood beside me at my wedding, who helped me pack when my marriage fell apart.

"You remember David?" she asked, not looking up from the fruit. "From accounting?"

My stomach twisted. I did remember David. I remembered how he'd lingered at my desk last December, how his hand had brushed mine when he handed me reports. How I'd told Maria about it, confessed the growing attraction over too many glasses of wine. She'd nodded sympathetically, told me to be careful.

"He's nice," I said. The words felt like stones in my throat.

"We're seeing each other," Maria said. She finally met my eyes. Her expression was carefully blank. "Three months now."

I reached for my glass of water. My hand trembled, and water sloshed over the rim, pooling on the table. I watched it spread, mesmerizing and sickening. Three months. That explained so much—the canceled lunch dates, the vague texts, the way she'd been pulling away.

Her cat, a svelte black thing named Loki, wound around my legs, purring. The animal had always liked me better than her. I reached down to stroke his fur, finding comfort in the solid warmth of him.

"You knew," I said. It wasn't a question. "You knew how I felt about him."

Maria shrugged, a gesture so small it was almost imperceptible. "I didn't think it was that serious. You never said anything."

The papaya lay exposed on the cutting board, bright orange and studded with black seeds. It looked like something torn open. Like a secret. Like a friendship.

"I didn't think I had to," I said. "Not with you."

She offered me a slice of the fruit. I took it, the flesh soft and sweet against my tongue. We ate in silence while Loki purred and the water on the table formed into an irregular puddle that reflected nothing at all.