The Last Fruit at the End of the Day

The office goldfish swam in endless, silent circles, unaware that the person who'd named it Bubbles had been escorted out of Building C three hours ago. Marcus stood by the cubicle, watching the orange scales flash in the fluorescent light. He'd liked Ethan - liked him enough that they'd shared drinks at the holiday party, leaned against each other in the elevator that one time, fingers brushing.

Corporate had sent the email at 4 PM: restructuring. Efficiency. Ethan collected his things in a box while everyone pretended to work.

"You taking the fish?" Marcus had asked, heart hammering stupidly against his ribs.

Ethan had laughed. "Can't. My landlord doesn't allow pets. You want him?"

Marcus had shaken his head, already imagining Cassandra's raised eyebrow at another living thing needing care. Now he regretted it.

The papaya sat heavy in his desk drawer, bought yesterday for the breakfast he'd never eaten. Ethan had mentioned once, almost casually, that it was his favorite fruit - reminded him of his grandmother's kitchen in Manila, where he'd spent summers before everything got complicated. Marcus had never tried it before.

He cut it open at his desk, the knife making a wet, sucking sound through skin that yielded like forgiveness. Inside, black seeds clustered in orange flesh, glistening and alien. The first bite was sweet and musky, slightly fermented at the edges.

Outside his window, the city lights blazed orange against the deepening purple dusk - a bruised sunset over the financial district. He thought of Ethan somewhere out there, box in hand, moving through the same city that had suddenly become unrecognizable.

The goldfish approached the glass, mouth opening and closing in silent remonstrance.

"I know," Marcus said aloud. "I know."

He ate the papaya to the rind, each mouthful a small defiance against the empty cubicle next to his. When he got home, Cassandra would ask how his day was, and he'd say "fine," and she'd believe him because she wanted to, and he'd let her because it was easier than the truth.

The goldfish kept swimming, endless loops in a world that had narrowed to the dimensions of its bowl. Marcus understood. Some things you just kept doing, even when you couldn't remember why you started.

He placed the papaya seeds in his pocket, where they burned like unlikely possibilities against his thigh, and turned off the lights.