The Mathematics of Loss

The morning sun hit her wedding ring where it sat on the bedside table, scattering light across the vitamin supplements lined up in neat rows. Vitamin D for the depression her doctor refused to call depression. Vitamin B complex for the energy she couldn't seem to summon. A small orange bottle of magnesium for the sleep that wouldn't come.

Seven months since David left. Seven months of learning to live alone in the apartment they'd painted together, chosen together, filled with three years of accumulated life.

She padded to the kitchen, the old dog Barnaby rising stiffly from his bed to follow her. His muzzle had gone gray this year, his hips clicking when he stood too quickly. David had wanted a younger dog, something energetic. She'd chosen Barnaby from the shelter precisely because he was old, because he needed someone, because he had a gentle soul that matched the quiet spaces in her own heart.

She sliced into the papaya she'd bought at the market, its vibrant orange flesh startling against the gray morning. David had hated papaya. Called it "musky" and "weird." She'd never bought it when they were together. Now she ate it nearly every day, each bite a small rebellion, a tiny assertion of self.

The phone buzzed on the counter. David's name lit up the screen. She stared at it, her thumb hovering over the green button. Barnaby pressed his warm side against her leg, his presence solid and reassuring.

"Hello?"

"I'm getting married." His voice was tight. "To Sarah."

The papaya suddenly tasted bitter in her mouth. She'd known about Sarah. Everyone knew about Sarah. But knowing and hearing were different animals.

"That's... good, David. I'm glad for you."

"Are you?"

She looked at the vitamins, at the lonely precision of her morning routine, at the dog who had become her anchor. At the papaya on her plate, bright and uncomplicated.

"I'm learning to be," she said, and hung up before he could respond.

Barnaby whined softly, nudging her hand with his wet nose. She knelt on the kitchen floor, burying her face in his coarse fur, letting herself feel everything she'd been postponing with pills and routine and carefully constructed new habits.

The papaya sat on the counter, its orange heart exposed to the morning light. She would eat it eventually. But not yet. First, she needed to learn how to feel again.