Fruit & Storms

The papaya sat on the counter, its sunset-orange flesh exposed where she'd begun to slice it. Sarah's hair—still wet from her shower—clung to her neck in dark tendrils. Outside, lightning split the sky, illuminating the kitchen in harsh stroboscopic bursts.

"You're going back?" she asked, her voice quiet.

Mark's iphone buzzed on the counter between them. He didn't reach for it. "I have to. The project—"

"The project," she repeated. "The project that has you working until midnight. The project that has you smelling like her perfume."

The words hung between them like smoke. Another flash of lightning, closer now. The papaya's sweet scent filled the room, incongruous and heavy.

"Sarah, don't do this."

"Do what? Notice? Notice that you come home late and shower immediately? Notice that your phone faces down whenever you're near me? Notice that you haven't touched me in three weeks?"

He stared at her. Her wet hair, her bare feet, the knife in her hand still poised over the fruit. She looked like a stranger.

"It's not what you think."

"Then tell me what it is. Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly like what I think it is."

Lightning struck somewhere nearby. The kitchen went dark for a heartbeat before the overhead light flickered back on.

"I can't," he said.

"You can't."

"No."

She nodded once, sharp and decisive. She set down the knife. "Then you should go."

"Sarah—"

"Go. To your project. To whatever it is that's more important than this."

He grabbed his keys. His iphone remained on the counter, its screen lighting up with a notification neither of them would see.

The papaya continued to weep juice onto the cutting board as the door clicked shut behind him. Outside, the sky opened.

Sarah stood alone in her kitchen as the rain began to fall, and for the first time in years, she didn't know who would be standing there when the storm passed.