Fruit of the Dead

Margot found the papaya on the kitchen counter three days after David moved out. It sat there like a small, pregnant accusation—yellow-green and rapidly softening, exactly how he'd liked it. She'd never eaten papaya before him. Never wanted to. That was the thing about David: he collected converts the way some men collected baseball cards.

Her dog, Buster, nudged her hand with his wet nose. David had never liked Buster. Too much shedding, too many needs. "Parasitic," he'd called dogs in general, over dinner parties where everyone nodded and sipped his expensive wine. Now Buster was the only living thing that looked at her with something resembling love, though she suspected it was mostly about the kibble.

Margot's iPhone buzzed on the counter—David's name lighting up the screen for the third time that morning. She'd stopped answering after he texted at 2 AM to say he'd left his good watch somewhere and could she check? The watch was worth more than her car. The watch was everything.

She picked up the papaya instead. It yielded slightly under her thumb, like overripe flesh. In the bedroom, David's side of the closet stood empty except for one wire hanger and the smell of his cologne—sandalwood and something synthetic, trying too hard to be earth. She'd been reduced to a hanger in her own life.

"He's not coming back, Buster," she said to the dog, who thumped his tail hopefully against the floorboards.

She sliced the papaya open. Inside, seeds clustered black and shiny, like something that had gestated too long. The flesh smelled strange—musky sweet, slightly fermented. She ate a piece standing at the counter, juice running down her chin. It tasted nothing like she expected. Nothing like anything.

Her iPhone chimed again. Not David this time—a notification from her fertility app. Your window is closing. Thirty-eight years old and now she had a closing window, a dog who loved her conditionally, and an ex-husband who'd left her for a woman who didn't believe in pets or children or anything that couldn't be upgraded annually.

Margot took another bite of papaya. It grew on you, she supposed. Everything did eventually.