The Last Papaya

The water glass sat untouched on Mara's desk, condensation pooling like unshed tears. Three weeks since Arthur died, and she still couldn't make herself hydrate properly. Her doctor had warned her about dehydration, but what did it matter? Some things dried you from the inside out.

'You need to eat, honey.' Janet placed a sliced papaya in front of her, the fruit's vibrant orange shocking against the gray cubicle walls. 'Arthur loved this stuff. Remember that trip to—'

'Don't.' Mara pulled her fedora lower, the hat's brim creating a necessary shadow between herself and the fluorescent lights. Between herself and pity.

The company had brought in a new VP last month—some twenty-eight-year-old shark they called 'the Fox' behind his back. Clever, ruthless, impossible to pin down. He'd cornered her yesterday in the breakroom, all manufactured warmth and predatory questions about retirement plans.

'You've given thirty years to this place, Mara. Don't you think it's time?' His smile didn't reach his eyes.

Arthur would've known what to say. Arthur, whose bear-like embrace had made even the worst days manageable. Arthur, who'd called her his 'fierce little thing' and meant it with love, not condescension.

Now here she was, fifty-two and feeling ancient in a startup world that worshipped youth. The papaya sat there, accusing and beautiful, a remnant of the life they'd planned. Costa Rica, they'd said. When they retired. When there was time.

She picked up the papaya, brought it to her lips. The taste hit her—sweet, slightly musky, impossibly vivid. Arthur's laughter echoed somewhere behind her eyes.

The Fox appeared at her cubicle entrance, suit perfectly pressed. 'Mara, about that exit package—'

She swallowed. 'I'm not taking it.'

His expression faltered for the first time. 'But you—'

'I said no.' She stood up, adjusting her hat. 'Arthur and I built this department. I'm not letting some fox pick its bones clean.' She picked up the water glass, finally drank. 'And I will be here for another twenty years. Try and stop me.'

The papaya's sweetness lingered. Somewhere deep inside, something began to hydrate again.