The Last Papaya

Mara stood in Julio's kitchen, the papaya on the counter turning from sunset-orange to bruised twilight. Two weeks since the funeral, and still she kept expecting to hear the scratch of his dog's claws against the linoleum, expecting Julio to appear in the doorway with that crooked grin that made everything feel possible again.

"You going to eat that?" Sarah asked, leaning against the doorframe. She was Julio's sister, the one who'd called Mara that terrible morning, the one who'd said, "He talked about you every day, you know."

Mara traced the fruit's mottled skin. "He bought it the day before. Said we'd share it, like in Costa Rica. Remember?"

"I remember you two coming back burned to a crisp, grinning like fools."

"We weren't together then."

Sarah's look was knowing. "Could've fooled me."

The papaya had been their joke that summer — the exotic fruit they'd splurged on at the market, eating it with dirty fingers while watching the sun dip into the Pacific. Julio had kissed her that night, sweet and desperate, but when they returned home, he'd said, "I can't. Not yet." And Mara had waited, had built her life around his "not yet," had convinced herself that friendship was enough.

Now this papaya sat softening in his empty kitchen, like all the time they'd never had.

"His dog's with me," Sarah said softly. "I can bring him over if you want."

"Please."

When Buster arrived, old and gray-muzzled, he limped straight to Mara and pressed his warm weight against her legs. She slid down to sit on Julio's kitchen floor, the dog's head in her lap, and wept for everything they'd almost been.

The papaya sat behind her, orange skin darkening, full of seeds that might have grown something, given time.