The Art of Losing

The papaya sat on my counter like a deliberate mistake, its sunset-orange skin bright against the gray of my grief. Six months after Sarah's funeral, and her husband Michael had finally worked up the courage to return her cookbooks.

I'd been Sarah's best friend, her chosen sister. Michael had been the man who'd stood between us, not by design, but by the simple tragedy of loving her more than we'd ever loved each other. When she died, we'd both collapsed in on ourselves, two satellites knocked out of orbit.

"I brought groceries," Michael said, setting bags on the counter. "Your fridge was empty."

He'd brought spinach, which he knew I loved but rarely bought for myself. Sarah used to tease me about it—how I'd deny myself simple pleasures, how I'd make everything difficult. Spinach was easy: just sauté it with garlic, let it wilt down to something manageable.

"She always made it look effortless," I said, washing the leaves. My hands were trembling. "Being alive, I mean."

Michael was quiet for a moment. "She worked at it."

We cooked together in silence, the intimacy of shared grief almost physical. I watched his hands—how he'd hesitate before touching something of hers, how he caressed the wooden spoons she'd loved. It was the most erotic thing I'd ever seen, and also the saddest.

"I'm leaving Portland," he said suddenly. "Can't stay in that house."

I nodded, understanding. "Where?"

"Didn't bring that much. Just need to be somewhere else."

We ate at Sarah's table, on her plates, with her forks. The spinach was perfect—garlicky and tender. I looked up to see Michael crying, silent tears tracking through his beard.

"I'm sorry," he said. "For everything."

"For what?"

"For loving her more than you did. For surviving. For bringing you spinach when you needed papaya."

I laughed then, a startled sound that felt like emerging from underwater. "Sarah would say you're overthinking it."

"She'd say we're both terrible at letting go," he agreed.

We didn't kiss, but we came close. We didn't say we'd stay in touch, but we didn't say goodbye either. When he left, the papaya still sat on my counter, impossible and beautiful. I sliced it open later, alone, the black seeds spilling out like small secrets. It was overripe, the flesh translucent and soft. I ate it standing at the sink, letting the juice run down my chin, thinking about how some sweetness only comes when you've waited too long.