The Breakfast After

She served papaya in the blue bowl they'd bought in Mexico, the fruit's flesh bright and accusing against the ceramic. Martin sat across from her, his hat still on—something he never did indoors. The brim cast a shadow over his face, but she could see his eyes darting around the room like a cornered fox.

'Your hair's different,' he said, not meeting her gaze.

She'd cut it yesterday. Eight inches gone, donated or thrown away, she couldn't remember. It had been the way he'd always grabbed it during arguments, during sex, during everything. Now her neck felt exposed, strange.

'It's just hair,' she said.

He reached across the table, his fingers hovering over her wrist before pulling back. The papaya sat between them, untouched. She remembered how he'd once described its taste—sweet, musky, like something that knew it would rot. She'd laughed then. Now the words felt like a warning.

'Maybe we should—'

'Don't.' She stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. 'Just finish your papaya, Martin.'

He didn't. He stood too, knocking his hat off the table. She watched him bend to retrieve it, his movements careful, deliberate. The fox in the corner had nowhere left to run.

She walked to the bathroom and turned on the water. Cold, it rushed over her hands as she gripped the sink. In the mirror, her reflection showed a stranger—short hair, naked neck, eyes that looked almost predatory in their clarity.

When she returned to the kitchen, the papaya was still in the bowl. Martin was gone. The hat remained on the table, like something he'd left behind on purpose. She sat down, took a fork, and finally ate.