Fruit on the Counter

Elena stood in the office breakroom, staring at the papaya she'd brought for lunch. The fruit sat on the counter like a silent accusation, its mottled skin reminding her of everything she couldn't say. Outside, she could see her coworkers through the glass walls, laughing at something Greg had said—Greg, whose office was three doors down from hers, and whose hotel room key she still carried in her wallet.

The water in the sink was running, a steady stream she'd forgotten to turn off. The sound was hypnotic, drowning out the office chatter, the emails piling up in her inbox, the wedding invitation she'd received that morning. Her sister was getting married in three months. "We need your RSVP, El. Are you bringing anyone?"

She touched the papaya's skin, feeling its slight give beneath her fingertips. It was perfectly ripe, just like her life was supposed to be. Thirty-two years old, successful career, beautiful apartment—everything looked good from the outside. But inside, she was rotting.

"Hey, Elena." Greg's voice behind her made her jump. He leaned against the doorframe, smiling that lazy smile that had undone her three months ago in Chicago. "You okay? You've been in here a while."

She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw the papaya at him. Instead she said, "Fine. Just thinking."

"About?" He stepped closer, into her space like he owned it.

"About fruit." She picked up the papaya, its weight suddenly heavy in her hand. "About how things look perfect on the outside but are completely messed up inside."

Greg's smile faltered. "Elena—"

"Your wife called me," she said, cutting him off. "Yesterday. She wanted to know if I'd be attending the company holiday party. She mentioned she'd heard we were getting close working on the Richardson account."

The running water filled the silence between them.

"Elena, she doesn't know anything. It's fine."

"It's not fine." She placed the papaya back on the counter with deliberate care. "I'm done, Greg. This lunch, this project, this—whatever this is—I'm done."

She walked past him, turning off the water on her way out. The papaya remained on the counter, waiting for someone who wasn't coming back.