Season of rotting fruit

Marcus stood in the produce aisle, gripping a papaya like it might explode. Three weeks since Elena left, and he still couldn't navigate the grocery store without reaching for things she loved. His iPhone buzzed in his pocket—probably another automated reminder about the couples' cooking class they'd never attend.

He dropped the papaya into his basket beside a bag of spinach. At home, Buster—their rescue dog, now just his dog—would watch him cook with those judgmental eyes, as if saying: "You're doing it wrong again."

The microwave dinged. Marcus ate his wilted spinach standing up, baseball game murmuring from the television. He used to pretend to care about baseball just to feel close to her father, that distant man who measured worth in RBIs and ERA. Now he watched alone and realized he'd never actually learned the rules.

"Buster," he said, and the dog thumped his tail against the floorboards.

Marcus pulled out his iPhone, scrolled through photos: Elena laughing on a beach, papaya sunset staining the sky behind her. The last image—her leaving, suitcase in hand, not looking back.

He deleted it.

The spinach tasted like loss. The papaya would taste like her perfume. The baseball game droned on, statistics for a life he'd never quite lived.

Marcus placed the papaya on the counter. Tomorrow, he'd buy what he wanted. Tonight, he let himself miss her.

Buster whined at the door. Marcus opened it. Together they stood under streetlights, learning to be enough.