The Last Papaya

Marcus moved through the office like a zombie, his consciousness operating on a three-second delay. It had been forty-two days since Elena's funeral, and he was still waiting for the world to snap back into focus. His coworkers moved around him in bright blurs, their voices muffled by the thick glass of his grief.

Her orange hat still hung on the hook by his front door at home. A ridiculous, oversized sun hat she'd bought on impulse in Mexico. She'd worn it exactly once—the day they found out about the cancer—and afterward, it became their private joke. The Orange Hat of Denial, she called it.

"Marcus? You still with us?" Sarah's voice cut through his fog. She stood in his doorway holding a Tupperware container. "My mom's tree is overflowing again. You want papaya?"

He blinked. Papaya. Elena had loved papaya. Had craved it during those last weeks when everything tasted like ash. "Sure. Thanks."

Sarah set the container on his desk, next to the small glass bowl where her goldfish swam in endless, blissful circles. She'd brought it in after her divorce, claiming its stupid, vacant stare was therapeutic.

"You okay?" Sarah asked, softer now.

Marcus nodded, not trusting his voice. The goldfish bumped against the glass, opening and closing its mouth.

"It's the hat, isn't it?" Sarah said suddenly. "The orange one."

He looked up sharply.

"I saw it that time I came over for drinks. You looked at it like you expected her to walk through the door and put it on."

Marcus pressed his palms against his eyes. "I can't seem to move it."

"Maybe don't," Sarah said. "Maybe let it stay there until it's just a hat. Until the orange is just orange."

He opened his eyes. The goldfish swam on, ignorant of loss, of time, of the weight of things left behind. Outside his window, the late afternoon light caught the papaya's sunset-orange flesh through the plastic container.

"Yeah," Marcus said, finally. "Maybe."

Something in his chest loosened, just a fraction. Not enough. But something.