The Last Papaya

The storm outside mirrored everything between us now – electric, unpredictable, destructive. Lightning fractured the sky every few minutes, illuminating the half-packed boxes in the living room, the years of accumulated things we'd somehow convinced ourselves mattered.

Marcus stood by the window, not really watching the rain. I sat at the kitchen island, slicing into the papaya I'd bought that morning with absurd optimism. The fruit was perfect – rose-fleshed and impossibly fragrant – and I'd purchased it thinking we'd share it for breakfast, maybe finally talk about what had been festering between us for months.

"Are you taking Mochi?" he asked, finally turning from the window.

Our cat materialized then, jumping onto the counter with that maddening grace she always had, as if she sensed she was being discussed. She sniffed at the papaya, indifferent, then looked between us with those judging yellow eyes.

"She's yours," I said. "You got her for my birthday three years ago."

"I got her because you said you were lonely in this apartment when I traveled for work."

"And I was." I ran the knife through another slice of papaya, the juice sticky on my fingers. "That hasn't changed, Marcus. The traveling hasn't changed. The loneliness hasn't changed. Only I've stopped telling you about it."

In the corner, the goldfish bowl caught a flash of lightning, the water momentarily brilliant. We'd won the fish at a street fair two summers ago, some stupid game where you tossed rings onto bottles. We'd laughed so hard that night, drunk on cheap beer and the thrill of winning nothing of consequence. The fish was still alive somehow, swimming in endless circles, outlasting everything we'd promised each other.

Marcus crossed the room, reaching for my hand. His fingers were cold.

"We could try counseling again," he said. "We could –"

"We could stop pretending," I said, pulling away. "That would be something."

Another flash of lightning, closer this time. The thunder followed almost immediately, rattling the windows. Mochi scrambled off the counter, disappeared under the sofa.

"The fish," Marcus said. "What happens to the goldfish?"

I looked at the bowl, the orange fish suspended in its watery universe, so small and oblivious.

"Flush it," I said. "Or give it to your sister. She likes rescuing things."

Marcus's face did something complicated then – a flicker of hurt, then acceptance, then something like relief. We were both so tired.

I pushed the plate of papaya toward him.

"Eat," I said. "Before it turns to mush like everything else."

He took a slice. We ate in the lightning-flashed kitchen, the rain drumming against the glass, and it was the most honest thing we'd done together in years.