Memory Like Glass

The papaya sat on the counter between us, already softening at the edges, its orange flesh going speckled where we'd both ignored it. Three days of Sarah's visit and we hadn't cut it open. Some things are easier to leave untouched.

"You remember that goldfish?" Sarah asked, like she'd been saving it. Outside, palm fronds scraped against the sliding door, a dry persistent sound. "The one we won at the fair?"

"Came home in a plastic bag, died within the week," I said. "Every kid's first lesson in responsibility."

"No, not that one." She traced the rim of her wine glass. "The one you kept for years. In that bowl on your dresser. You used to talk to it like it could actually hear you."

I remembered. I'd been fifteen, lonely in that way that feels permanent. The fish would press its mouth against the glass, opening and closing, and I'd tell it everything—about my mother drinking, about how much I hated school, about wanting to be someone else someday. Someone who lived somewhere with palm trees, who ate papayas for breakfast like it was normal.

"I named it Arthur," I said. "After that boy in my math class who never looked at me once."

Sarah laughed, but it wasn't mean. "God, we were pathetic."

"We were teenagers."

"No, I mean—we really thought it would get better. That we'd grow up and everything would just... resolve." She pushed the papaya toward me. "Cut it. Before it's completely gone."

I sliced it open. The seeds were dark and glossy, clinging to the center. The smell was everywhere at once—sweet, musky, overpowering.

"I'm leaving Mark," Sarah said.

The knife paused in my hand. Outside, the wind picked up, rattling the palms.

"He's having an affair," she continued. "With someone from work. I found the texts yesterday."

I looked at her friend—really looked. The fine lines around her eyes, the careful way she held herself, like she might crack. We were thirty-eight now. The distance between fifteen and thirty-eight felt unimaginable, and also like no time at all.

"You can stay here," I said. "As long as you need."

"I can't. I have a meeting Monday. The mortgage. The dog."

"So you're going back."

"I'm going back." She took a piece of papaya, ate it without tasting it. "Arthur probably swam in circles for years thinking he was going somewhere."

"He was a fish."

"Exactly." She stood up, her chair scraping against the tile. "I should pack."

I watched her go. The papaya sat between us, its flesh exposed to air, already beginning to brown. Outside, the palm trees kept bending without breaking, over and over, in the endless same wind.