The Fruit of Memory

The papaya sat on the counter, its mottled skin growing softer by the hour. Elena had bought it three days ago, the same day David moved out.

"Exotic," he'd called it, wrinkling his nose at the grocery store. "Like something that doesn't belong here."

She sliced into it now, the knife yielding easily to the ripe flesh. Inside, seeds clustered like dark secrets. She'd always loved how the fruit looked nothing like its exterior—bright orange, shocking against the muted tones of their kitchen. Their kitchen. Hers now.

The cable box blinked 12:00, forgotten since David took the remote. Or maybe she'd hidden it. She couldn't remember anymore. The television had gone dark weeks ago, when she realized they hadn't watched anything together in months anyway.

The baseball sat on the windowsill where she'd left it—that signed ball from the game they attended on their first anniversary. David had caught it when it flew into the stands, or so he'd claimed. Elena had found the receipt in his jacket last month. Bought on eBay, two days before the game. The signature was real enough, but the story wasn't.

She touched the papaya's bright flesh, thinking about how David had always preferred things that looked perfect on the outside. Green bananas. Firm avocados. Women who didn't ask questions.

The cable company sent another bill today. She'd set up auto-pay in both their names after the wedding, another one of those things you do without thinking about the end. Calling to remove him felt like admitting failure, so she hadn't yet.

Her phone buzzed. David. "Left my baseball glove," the text read. "Can I come by?"

Elena looked at the papaya seeds scattered on the cutting board, at the orange-stained knife, at the baseball that was never really caught, at the cable bill that was still half his.

"Papaya's going bad," she typed back. "Better come soon."

She sliced another piece, letting the juice run down her fingers. Sweet, unexpected, unlike anything she'd taste again.