The Last Papaya

Maria sat at the edge of the apartment complex pool, feet dangling in tepid water that reflected the dying orange of sunset. Her iPhone buzzed against the lounge chair—David again, third time today—but she ignored it. Some conversations required more than text messages.

Their golden retriever, Barnaby, rested his heavy head on her knee. At twelve, he moved with the arthritic slowness of old age, his once-silky coat now touched with gray. She'd picked up his glucosamine supplements this morning, along with her own multivitamins—a daily ritual that felt increasingly like preparing for decline rather than sustaining life.

The scent of papaya wafted from the half-eaten fruit in her hand, transporting her back to their honeymoon in Kauai. David had fed her slices of it from a roadside stand, juice running down their chins, laughing as they stumbled toward their rental cottage. They'd been so young then, convinced love was armor against time.

But time had a way of wearing down everything eventually. The papaya tasted sweet and slightly fermented, like memory itself.

Barnaby whined softly, sensing her melancholy. She stroked his ears, remembering the day they'd brought him home as a puppy—David carrying him like a baby, both of them already parents to something that would inevitably break their hearts.

The pool lights flickered on, casting ripples of artificial blue across the water. A reminder that even in the depth of summer, darkness came.

Her iPhone screen lit up again: David's face from the contact photo she'd taken three years ago, back when he still looked at her like she was the answer to every question he'd ever asked.

Maria threw the papaya rind into the trash and pressed answer. "Come home," she said. "Before we forget why we stayed."