The Last Papaya

The lightning flashed again, illuminating the moving boxes stacked like cardboard monuments in the center of the living room. Sarah watched from the kitchen doorway, nursing a papaya she'd cut into reluctant wedges, its flesh the color of bruises and sunset.

"You're really doing this," she said, not a question. The rain drummed against the windows, water running down the glass like tears she refused to shed.

Mark didn't turn from the goldfish tank where their betta fish, previously thought immortal, floated sideways near the plastic fern. "I have to, Sarah. You know I do."

"Do I?" She took a bite of the papaya, sweet and cloying. "Because what I know is that three days ago you were talking about anniversary plans, and now you're packing while it storms like the fucking apocalypse outside."

"People change. Situations change."

"Situations." She laughed, dark and humorless. "That's what we are now? A situation?"

The lightning struck closer this time, and the power flickered, plunging them into darkness before the emergency lights hummed on. In the dim amber glow, the goldfish gave a final shudder and went still.

"Great," Mark said. "Now the fish is dead too."

"Metaphors," Sarah said, eating another wedge. "You always did love them."

"I'm sorry about the timing."

"No, you're not. You're just sorry you couldn't wait until the morning to start running. That's what this is, isn't it? You're running. Not toward something, just away."

Mark zipped his duffel bag with a sound like tearing fabric. "Call it whatever you need to."

He picked up the bag and headed for the door, pausing at the threshold. "Sarah—"

"Don't." She sliced through the last of the papaya's skin with surgical precision. "Just go, Mark. The fish is dead, the power's out, and I'd rather eat this fucking fruit alone than watch you pretend this is hard for you."

The door clicked shut behind him, and she sat alone in the amber light, finishing the papaya while the rain kept falling, washing away nothing at all.