The Papaya Incident

The papaya sat on the counter, its sunset-orange flesh exposed where she'd started to slice it. Maria hadn't finished. She never finished anything lately — not the fruit, not their marriage, not the conversation she'd started three nights ago about wanting more.

Ben stood in their kitchen, his phone buzzing against his palm. Her text: Can you feed Buster? Just for a few days.

The dog, Buster, was currently lying on Maria's side of the bed — now just her old side, the sheets already cool. Ben had found him there that morning, muzzle resting on her pillow, as if waiting for her return. He'd fed the dog spinach and rice for breakfast because that was all that was left in the refrigerator. Buster had eaten it without complaint, because dogs were loyal like that.

The iPhone on the counter lit up again. Another notification. Ben didn't pick it up.

He picked up the knife instead. Finished what she'd started, slicing the papaya into neat crescents. The juice stained his fingers sticky-sweet. He remembered buying it at the market — how she'd laughed when he'd chosen one so green it was basically a rock. 'We have to wait,' she'd said, pressing it to his palm. 'Good things take time.'

They'd waited four years. Apparently not long enough.

He ate a slice. It was finally ripe, sweet and musky and perfect, and he couldn't share it with anyone. Buster appeared in the doorway, tail thumping a hopeful rhythm against the doorframe.

'Yeah,' Ben said, and his voice cracked. 'You want some?'

The dog trotted over, expecting the usual routine — the pleading, the 'no, you can't have people food,' the eventual surrender. Instead, Ben placed a piece of papaya on the floor. Buster sniffed it, looked up at Ben with confused eyes, then lapped it up anyway.

The phone buzzed again. Maria's sister this time: Are you okay?

Ben stared at the screen, then out the window where their palm tree swayed in the evening breeze. They'd planted it together, she with a vision of margaritas and sunset dinners, him with visions of basically just keeping another living thing alive. Now it towered over the yard, ignorant of divorce.

He typed back: Fine.

Then he opened the refrigerator and took out the spinach. Started chopping. Buster sat by his bowl, waiting for dinner, for routine, for the familiar cadence of their lives to resume.

'Fine,' Ben said aloud, testing the word. 'We're fine.'

The papaya sat half-eaten on the counter. The phone went dark. The dog kept waiting. Somewhere out there, Maria was doing whatever Maria did now — starting things she wouldn't finish, buying papayas that would ripen without him.

Ben kept chopping. It was something to do with his hands.