Rotten in the Crisper

The orange sat on the counter like a forgotten sun, its skin dimpling with age. Maya hadn't realized how long it had been since she'd been to Marcus's apartment until she saw the fruit bowl she'd bought three years ago, still there, still accumulating things neither of them bothered to eat.

"He's in the bedroom," Marcus said, not looking up from his phone. "You can just... get him."

The cat. Barnaby. The custody arrangement they'd jokingly agreed on during drinks, then somehow actually followed through on once the papers were signed. Every other week, the cat traveled between their separate lives, a small, judgmental witness to their decay.

Maya found Barnaby curled on what used to be her pillow. He blinked at her with slow, deliberate contempt, as if he knew exactly why their marriage had failed and held her personally responsible. She scooped him up, his weight familiar and suddenly unbearable.

"You're still friends with her, aren't you?" The question escaped before she could stop it. She'd promised herself she wouldn't ask. The therapist had said acceptance meant letting go of needing to know.

Marcus sighed, the sound long-suffering and practiced. "Maya. Elena and I work together. We've been friends for eight years. Nothing happened until after—"

"Until after what? Until after you moved out? Or until after I caught you at her apartment that 'one time' that was apparently just coffee?"

"We're not doing this. Not again."

He walked to the refrigerator, opening it with unnecessary force. Light spilled out, illuminating the truth of his current life: takeout containers, beer, and a bag of spinach that had turned into a slimy green mush in the crisper drawer. The spinach she'd bought the week before she left.

"You kept the spinach," she said, and the absurdity of it cracked something open in her chest. "Three years, Marcus. You kept the spinach."

"I didn't—" He looked at the bag, really looked at it. "I guess I just stopped seeing it."

"That's the problem, isn't it? You stopped seeing everything that was already here."

Barnaby squirmed in her arms, ready to go. She understood. They were all ready to go, had been ready for years, but moving required admitting something had died while they stood still.

"Next Tuesday," Marcus said to the refrigerator door. "For Barnaby."

"Right," she said. "Next Tuesday."

She left without the orange, without another word. Some things were better left to rot on their own timeline.