Papaya Season

Margaret found herself standing in the produce aisle at 7 PM on a Tuesday, holding a papaya like it was a newborn. The cashier had asked if she knew how to tell when it was ripe, and Margaret had almost said yes, almost mentioned Richard—the way his thumb would press into the fruit's skin, searching for give, the way he'd laugh when she called it the avocado method. But Richard had been gone for six months now, his belongings redistributed to Good Will, his side of the closet gradually filling with her blouses she couldn't quite remember buying.

The papaya went into her cart anyway.

In their apartment, Bread—their cat, though Margaret still thought of him as Richard's cat despite three years of shared custody—watched from his perch on the refrigerator. He'd been Richard's anniversary present, chosen because his orange patches reminded them of autumn in New York, that first baseball game at Yankee Stadium where Richard had somehow secured seats three rows from the dugout. They'd been so young then, believing in the permanence of things like season tickets and mortgage payments and love that could withstand distance.

"You're judging my grocery choices," Margaret told the cat, slicing into the papaya. It yielded too easily—overripe. The flesh wept onto the cutting board.

She should have thrown it away. Should have learned to stop buying fruit Richard had loved, should have stopped watching baseball games alone on Sundays, should have rehomed Bread to someone who didn't see Richard's eyes in his amber stare. But grief operated on its own logic, hoarding small hurts like a dragon's treasure. There was something almost luxurious about it—the permission to be incomplete, to be the person who couldn't function properly, who made decisions about papaya ripeness based on ghost-recipes.

Her phone buzzed. A text from Richard: Saw the Yankees lost. Thought you'd want to know.

Margaret stared at the screen until it locked. The papaya sat untouched on her plate, its black seeds arranged like tiny accusations. Somewhere in this city, Richard was probably eating dinner with someone else, maybe explaining baseball strategy or judging papayas with gentle precision. And here she was, thirty-seven and learning that some people never really left you—they just forwarded you sports scores.

Bread jumped onto the counter, nosing at the fruit. Margaret slid the plate toward him.

"Fine," she said. "But you'll see. It's too soft."

The cat ate without complaint, because cats, unlike ex-husbands, had the decency to simply take what was offered without making you examine why you were still giving it.