Papaya Season

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin freckled with yellow like aging skin, like Marian's hands used to look before she left. David stood in the kitchen of their shared apartment—his now, technically—and realized he'd never learned to cut one properly. Marian always did the fruit preparation. She'd slice through the thick skin with practiced ease, scoop out the black seeds that looked like polished obsidian beads, and present him with neat, orange crescents on a white plate.

He should return the dog. Buster was hers—a neurotic rescue with separation anxiety and a deep-seated hatred of thunderstorms. But David kept making excuses. It had been three months since Marian walked out with nothing but a suitcase and her plant collection. "You can have the furniture," she'd said, her voice flat. "Just don't call me until you figure out who you are."

David picked up a knife and hacked at the papaya. The flesh inside was shockingly orange, so vibrant it looked artificial. He cut himself a jagged slice and tasted it—sweet, musky, slightly fermented. It tasted like memory, like the mornings they'd sit on the balcony eating breakfast while Marian made fun of his tie collection.

Buster whined from the corner, tail thumping a nervous rhythm against the baseboard. The dog always knew when David was thinking about her. It was unsettling, really.

His phone buzzed on the counter. Marian's name lit up the screen.

David's heart did something complicated. He stared at the papaya's black seeds, glistening in the afternoon light that turned everything orange-gold. Outside, someone's dog was barking at the mail carrier, a sound so domestic it made his chest hurt.

He didn't answer. Instead, he sat on the floor and fed pieces of papaya to Buster, watching the dog's delicate tongue lap up the fruit, and let himself finally, finally cry.