Fruit of the Storm

The papaya sat on the counter like an accusation. Yellow-orange, slightly soft, completely out of place in Seattle. Ben had brought it home yesterday, saying something about wanting to try new things, wanting to spice up their twelve-year marriage that had settled into comfortable silence.

Now it was just Sarah and the papaya and Barnaby, their obese orange tabby who watched her with judging eyes from the kitchen table.

Outside, lightning split the sky—crack, flash, illuminating the rain that streaked the windows like tears. The storm had rolled in at dusk, bringing with it a electricity that made the hair on Sarah's arms stand up.

Her iPhone vibrated against the marble counter. Again.

She didn't need to look. She knew who it was. The same person who'd been calling all evening. The same person whose number Ben had forgotten to delete from his phone last month.

The papaya's skin dimpled when she pressed it. Too ripe, like something left too long on the vine. Like them.

Barnaby hopped onto the counter and sniffed the fruit with deliberate curiosity.

"Don't," she said, but her voice lacked conviction.

Another flash of lightning. This time, the power flickered and died. The house plunged into darkness, illuminated only by the storm's violence and her phone's screen, glowing with another message.

She sliced the papaya open. Black seeds spilled like secrets. The flesh smelled sweet, tropical, wrong for this gray city and this gray mood. She took a bite anyway. It tasted like regret and vacation memories from a marriage that still knew how to laugh at the same jokes.

The cat purred, pressing against her leg in the dark.

Her iPhone lit up one last time with a text: "He's not coming back."

Sarah chewed slowly. The papaya was surprisingly good—complex, bittersweet, nothing like she expected. She swallowed and picked up her phone, her thumb hovering over Ben's name in her contacts.

The lightning flashed again, closer this time, and in that brief illumination, she made her choice.