Fruit of Forgotten Things

Maya sat at the kitchen counter, the glow of her iPhone illuminating half her face in the darkness. Three unread messages from David. She'd been staring at them for twenty minutes, thumb hovering over the screen, unable to either delete them or respond.

The papaya sat on the cutting board beside her phone, its sunset-orange flesh glistening with tiny black seeds. David had brought it home yesterday—their anniversary, though he'd forgotten. He'd remembered sometime around midnight, rushed to the bodega, returned with this fruit like it was an offering.

"Exotic," he'd said, proud of himself. "Like our honeymoon."

But papaya wasn't exotic anymore. It was just fruit.

Barnaby, their elderly tabby cat, jumped onto the counter with surprising grace for his sixteen years. He sniffed the papaya, looked at Maya with yellow eyes that seemed to hold all the judgment of the universe, then settled into a loaf shape beside her phone.

"You're right," Maya whispered. "It's pathetic."

She sliced into the papaya. The juice ran over her fingers—sticky, sweet, slightly musky. The smell hit her like memory: that hotel balcony in Belize, David's hand on her waist, the way they'd laughed at nothing. The papaya there had been perfect. This one was mealy, overripe.

Just like them.

Her iPhone buzzed again. David: "Can we talk?"

Maya ate a slice of the fruit. It tasted like decay and sugar, like trying to hold onto something that had already turned. She wiped her sticky hands on a paper towel, picked up her phone, and typed:

No.

Then she blocked his number.

Barnaby purred, headbutting her hand. Outside, the first light of dawn was beginning to stain the sky the same bruised color as the fruit on her counter. Maya took another bite. It was terrible, absolutely terrible, and she finished every bite.