Papaya Season

I slice through the papaya, its flesh weeping pale orange onto the counter. Maria always said I cut it wrong—too much pressure, bruising the fruit. Now there's no one to correct me. The sunset bleeds through our kitchen windows, making everything look like it's caught in some fever dream, like the whole apartment is holding its breath.

Three weeks after she left, I'm still eating breakfast out of habit. My phone buzzes—Dave from accounting, wanting to know if I'm coming to the quarterly review. I ignore it. Let them wonder. Let them think whatever they want about why their regional manager stopped showing up.

"You're full of shit," she'd said, throwing her earrings into a takeaway bag. That was the night she finally called me on it—years of pretending I was happy, that I wanted this life, this corner office with its view of parking lots and other glass buildings. I'd tried to defend myself, said I did it for us. She laughed. "For us? You haven't been present in years. You're just going through motions, expecting applause."

The worst part was that she was right. I'd been chasing promotions like they were promises, collecting achievements the way some people collect scars. The papaya tastes overripe now, almost fermenting on my tongue. Sweet and wrong.

I remember the night I made partner, how I came home drunk on expensive scotch and ego, expecting her to be impressed. She was sitting on the balcony in the dark, eating papaya slices she'd cut into perfect crescents. "Congratulations," she said, flat as paper. "Does it matter?" The question hung there like smoke. I didn't answer. I went to bed alone.

The phone buzzes again. Another notification from work—they're probably drafting my termination letter now. Good. Let them. The orange light is fading from the kitchen, giving way to blue dusk. I finish the papaya, seeds and all, and for the first time in years, something tastes real.