Fruit of Memory

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin mottled with yellow and green like a bruise that wouldn't heal. Three days since she left, and the fruit she'd bought was finally ripening without her.

Marla's hair still clogged the drain. That was the first thing I noticed each morning—the tangled strands of red-gold that refused to wash away, like her presence in this apartment. In the shower, I'd stare at the tiled wall and remember how she'd sing off-key, steam curling around the bathroom mirror.

My iPhone buzzed on the counter—her name lighting up the screen again. I didn't answer. What was there to say? She'd made her choice when she packed her bags and walked out.

The bear—her stupid stuffed bear from the state fair where we'd met—sat on the bed, its glass eyes watching me judge my life. I'd won it for her after three tries at the ring toss. She'd laughed, throwing her arms around me, papaya sticky on her lips from the snow cone she'd been eating. That night, we'd ended up at my place, clothes scattered across the floor like fallen leaves.

Now, the bear was all that remained.

I cut into the papaya. Its flesh was bright orange, seeds clustered black in the center like some dark secret. The taste was sweet and musky, nothing like I expected. It was the first time I'd tried it—she was always the adventurous one with food, always dragging me to ethnic restaurants, ordering exotic fruits at the market.

My phone lit up again: "Can we talk?"

I stared at the bear, at the half-eaten papaya, at the strands of hair still clinging to the bathroom sink. Everything in this apartment was a monument to a relationship that had already died while I was still living in it.

I typed back: "No."

Then I deleted the message, threw the bear in the trash, and finished the papaya. It wasn't about her anymore. It was about learning to live in the present, to taste things for myself, to fill spaces that had been too long occupied by someone else's presence.

The papaya was actually quite good. I'd never know what she'd think of that. And that, I realized, was the point.