The Last Papaya

The papaya sat on the counter, too ripe now, its skin freckled with decay. Three days ago, Elias had brought it home from the market, smiling as he held it up like a prize. 'Perfect,' he'd said. 'Just like us.' He'd always been prone to these grand declarations, finding significance in the most ordinary things.

Now, Mara stood at the kitchen sink, the water running endlessly over her hands—she couldn't remember turning it on, couldn't make herself stop. The cable company had been here yesterday, their van parked in the driveway like a funeral hearse, disconnecting the service Elias had insisted they needed. Another thing he'd promised would make everything better.

She heard his key in the lock. Running—that's what she should have been doing, months ago, when his texts stopped coming home, when his work started requiring all those late nights. Instead, she'd stayed, watching their life together soften and rot like the fruit on the counter.

'Eat it,' he said, appearing behind her. 'Before it goes completely.' His hand touched her shoulder, light as a warning.

She turned off the water. 'I'm not hungry.'

'You never are anymore.' He picked up the papaya, weighed it in his palm. 'Remember Hawaii? You said this was what happiness tasted like.'

That was before she knew happiness could be performed. Before she learned that some people collect moments like souvenirs, displaying them to prove they were present, while others actually lived through them. The papaya had been sweet then. Everything had.

'It's just a fruit, Elias.'

'Everything's just something to you.' He sliced it open, the flesh inside darkening where it should have been bright. 'Jesus, it is bad.' He dropped it in the trash.

The cable guy had asked if she wanted to keep the same phone number. She'd said yes, as if numbers mattered anymore. As if anything was connecting them anymore.

'I'm leaving,' she said, and watched him carefully arrange his face into something resembling surprise. The water started running again—she hadn't touched the faucet. Or maybe she had. Maybe she was running now, finally, in the only way that mattered. The papaya was gone, but the sweetness had been gone long before that.