Inventory of Separation

The papaya sat on the counter like an accusation, its skin mottled with yellow and green, growing softer by the hour. We'd bought it together at that farmers market she loved, the one where the organic kale cost eight dollars a bunch and everyone acted like their sustainable choices made them moral giants. Now she was gone, and the papaya was ripening alone in our—the kitchen. My kitchen.

Her lawyer's email had been specific about the cat. Jupiter was 'jointly acquired' during the marriage, therefore 'joint marital property.' But I'd seen how Jupiter looked at her, those amber eyes following her around the room like she was the only warm thing in a cold universe. The paperwork could say whatever it wanted. Some belongings choose their people.

I'd already given her the goldfish. Not that she'd wanted it—Bubbles had been my anniversary gift to her three years ago, a metaphorical gesture about how love should be: simple, contained, beautiful to watch. But the fish was just a fish, swimming its endless circles in its little castle, and she'd left it behind without a backward glance. Which told me everything I needed to know about how she'd really felt about my metaphors.

The cable company was another story altogether. The account was in my name, but the DVR was full of her shows: cooking competitions she never cooked from, true crime documentaries she watched while 'working' on her novel, the entire series of that show about the vampires that we'd binged during that week in Seattle when we'd both called in sick and stayed in bed ordering takeout and pretending we were the only two people who'd ever really been in love.

The technician arrived at 7 PM, efficient and bored. He unplugged the cable box while I stood there holding a half-empty wine glass, watching our life get disconnected box by box. He didn't ask why I was canceling. He probably saw this every day—the debris of other people's dismantled lives.

"All set," he said, and left me alone in the living room that suddenly seemed too large, too quiet, missing the background noise I'd complained about for years. The papaya on the counter had brown spots now. It was past saving, like everything else.