The Last Papaya

Maya cut into the papaya with surgical precision, the knife gliding through flesh that reminded her uncomfortably of soft, bruised skin. The kitchen was quiet at 6 AM—the only time she could think anymore. Marcus would be up in an hour, asking where his tie was, complaining about the traffic, acting like nothing had changed.

He'd called her "emotional" last night. That was the new code word, ever since she'd found the texts on his phone. "You're being dramatic," he'd said, his voice so reasonable, so measured. Like he was explaining something to a child. The sheer bull of it made her hands shake as she scooped the black seeds into the trash.

She looked at her palm—still red from where she'd gripped the kitchen counter last night, holding herself together while he lied. She was thirty-five, but she felt ancient. The woman in the mirror had gray hairs she'd never noticed before, streaks of silver in the brown that Marcus used to run his fingers through when they first met.

Running had been her escape once. Five miles every morning before dawn, the rhythmic thud of her sneakers on pavement drowning out everything else. She hadn't laced up her running shoes in six months. Somewhere along the way, she'd stopped running, literally and figuratively.

The papaya sat in the bowl, glistening. It was supposed to be good for digestion. supposed to help with stress. Everything was supposed to help with something.

"Maya?" Marcus's voice from the doorway. She didn't turn. "You're up early."

She picked up a piece of papaya and put it in her mouth, sweet and slightly musky. "Yeah."

"We need to talk about last night."

Maya swallowed. She turned to face him—really looked at him for the first time in months. The handsome, charming man she'd married. The stranger.

"No," she said. "I don't think we do."

She picked up her running shoes from the corner where they'd been gathering dust.

"Where are you going?" Marcus asked, genuinely confused.

Maya walked past him, out the door, into the cool morning air. Her first steps were awkward, rusty. But by the time she reached the end of the street, she was running.