The Fruit of Memory

Maggie had been running for forty-five minutes when her iPhone buzzed against her arm—the fifth time tonight. She ignored it, pounding the pavement of her gentrifying Brooklyn neighborhood, sweat stinging her eyes, lungs burning in that way she'd come to crave after David died.

He'd loved papaya. Of all the ridiculous things to miss about a person—the way they laughed at their own jokes, their clumsy attempts at romance, their stupid face when the Mets lost—Maggie missed his weird obsession with papaya most. He'd eat it every morning with lime, claiming it tasted like vacation, like the future they'd never take.

The iPhone buzzed again. She stopped running, bent double, hands on knees, and finally looked at it. Her sister: 'Baseball game Saturday. Mom's asking. Please come.'

Baseball had been David's religion. They'd met at a Mariners game when she'd accidentally spilled beer on his shoes, and three years later, he'd proposed at Fenway. The whole baseball thing—innings, statistics, the agonizing patience of it—had bored her senseless until she understood it was never about the sport. It was about showing up, season after season, for something that might break your heart.

Maggie straightened up, breathing hard, and typed back: 'I'll be there.' Then she walked into the bodega on the corner, where a papaya sat on a crate, impossibly orange against the fluorescent lights. The clerk gave her a look.

'It's good luck,' she said, paying for it. 'Or something like that.'

Outside, she ate it standing on the sidewalk, juice running down her chin, tasting like vacation and futures she might still take. The papaya was too ripe, almost fermenting, sweet and complicated and messy, and for the first time in six months, she didn't feel like she was running away anymore.