Fruit of the Void

Margaret stood in the kitchen of the apartment she'd shared with David for seven years, now hollowed out by his sudden departure. The golden retriever they'd rescued together, Buster, pressed against her leg, sensing the displacement in the air. She'd always hated that dog—David's choice, not hers—but now his warm weight was the only thing grounding her.

On the counter sat the papaya David had brought home two days ago, claiming it was exotic and they should try new things. It sat there, an absurd monument to his half-formed enthusiasms, gathering soft spots like her patience had over the years.

She picked up an orange from the bowl, rolling it between her palms. The scent of citrus rose up, sharp and clean, cutting through the stale emotional residue of their last argument. David had wanted to "find himself" in Peru. She'd wanted him to find himself in a therapist's office.

The packing box in the bedroom yawned open. Margaret had found the photograph tucked inside his copy of "The Little Prince"—a younger David, grinning beside a grizzly in some roadside attraction. The bear's mouth was open in something between a roar and a yawn, and David looked so convinced of his own invincibility.

She realized then that she'd been the one bearing the weight of his perpetual adolescence, his refusal to grow into the man she'd thought she married. The papaya was soft now, overripe. She cut it open, and it bled orange sweetness onto her fingers. Buster whined, expecting a share.

"Go ahead," she whispered, sliding him a piece. "Everything goes eventually."

The dog ate happily, indifferent to metaphor. Margaret watched him and felt something loosen in her chest—not forgiveness, but something like clarity. She would bear this absence as she'd borne his presence: on her own terms, in her own time. The orange peel lay curled on the counter like a question she finally knew how to answer.