The Goldfish in the Papaya

The papaya sat on the counter like an accusation—overripe, spotted with yellow bruises, a week past its prime. Much like everything else in Sarah's apartment since Michael moved out three months ago.

Her iPhone buzzed with a text from him: 'Can I get my bear?'

The bear—a mounted taxidermy grizzly they'd drunkenly purchased at an estate auction during their 'adventurous phase'—now loomed in the corner of her living room. Its glass eyes followed her everywhere. Michael had called it rustic charm. She called it evidence of their collective desperation to seem interesting.

She typed back: 'Come tomorrow.'

The goldfish circled its bowl on the windowsill, orange and oblivious. Michael had bought it as a joke—something low-maintenance, he'd said, unlike their relationship. The fish had survived three apartment moves and one breakup. It knew more about her life than her therapist did.

Sarah grabbed her hat from the hook—a wide-brimmed straw thing she'd worn to their anniversary dinner at that overpriced rooftop restaurant. They'd argued about the bill. He'd said she was too practical; she'd said he was too reckless with money. The bill was two hundred dollars. They split it.

The papaya was still sitting there, softening in the afternoon heat. She'd bought it the day he left, thinking she'd start making smoothies, taking care of herself. Instead, she'd been ordering takeout and drinking wine straight from the bottle.

She sliced the papaya open. Black seeds spilled out like dark thoughts. The flesh was sweet and faintly fermented, like something dying gracefully.

'Well,' she said to the goldfish. 'At least one of us is still swimming.'

The bear stared. The iPhone buzzed again. She didn't look.

Tomorrow Michael would come. He'd take his bear. He'd comment on how the place looked different, smaller somehow. He'd ask if she was seeing anyone. She'd lie and say she was focusing on herself.

But tonight, Sarah sat on her kitchen floor eating papaya with her hands, letting the juice run down her wrists, and for the first time in months, she didn't feel like she was waiting for something to start. She was just here, in the mess of it, and that was enough.