Riddles of the Leaving

The papaya sat on the granite counter, its skin mottled with violent bruises, sweet flesh turning to memory. Elena stood before it, knife hovering. Three years they'd shared this kitchen, and now it would all fit into boxes.

David was in the living room, his silence imposing as any sphinx. The riddle wasn't why they were ending—that much was clear. The riddle was how they'd stayed so long, building monuments to mutual unhappiness, convincing themselves it was a foundation.

"You're really going?" His voice from the doorway.

She didn't turn. "The cat's carrier is by the door."

"Of course. The cat chose you."

"Barnaby chose whoever left the food out. That happened to be me."

"And the dog? What's the line for him?"

Elena finally faced him. "You kept Duke. Remember? You needed someone who greeted you like a king every time you walked in. Someone who didn't ask questions."

David's laugh was dry, cracking in his throat. "The sphinx speaks at last."

"There's nothing mysterious about it, David. You wanted loyalty without accountability. I wanted...

She stopped. What had she wanted? Someone who saw her. Someone who didn't look through her like she was furniture to be arranged and rearranged according to his comfort.

She sliced the papaya. The blade made wet sounds through flesh that had waited too long. Black seeds spilled like afterthoughts.

"You'll take the car," he said. "I'll keep the house. It's only fair."

Fair. The word they'd used to negotiate their marriage like a business merger, dividing assets and emotional labor, keeping ledgers of who owed what. She was done with fairness. She wanted something else—something impossible, maybe. Something like being known.

"Elena?"

"What."

He stood in the kitchen's yellow light, looking smaller than she'd ever seen him. "Did you ever love me?"

The sphinx's final riddle, and she had no answer. Only the taste of overripe papaya in her mouth, sweet beginning to rot, and the distant sound of Barnaby crying from his carrier, and Duke's expectant whine from the yard, and all the ways they would become strangers again, piece by piece, until nothing remained but the answering silence of a life unlived.