The Papaya Incident

The papaya sat on the kitchen counter, slowly softening into oblivion. It had been there for three days, since Marcus left. Elena had bought it thinking they'd make breakfast together, thinking that maybe fresh fruit and a new vitamin regimen would fix what was breaking between them. Now the fruit's green-yellow skin reminded her of his eyes the morning he'd said he couldn't do this anymore.

Her iphone buzzed on the nightstand—his fourth text that day. She ignored it, reaching instead for the bottle of prenatal vitamins she'd hidden in the back of the cabinet. The irony wasn't lost on her. She'd taken them secretly for two months, planning to tell him after their anniversary dinner. Instead, he'd told her he'd met someone else. Someone younger, simpler, someone who didn't overanalyze everything.

Barnaby, their golden retriever, nudged her hand with his wet nose. He'd been moping around the apartment too, probably confused why Marcus's side of the bed remained empty. Elena buried her fingers in his fur, letting the tears finally come. She wasn't crying because she'd lost him—that had been happening gradually for years. She cried because she'd almost convinced herself that love could be manufactured like happiness in a pill.

The papaya would rot if she didn't cut it soon. Some things needed to be consumed or discarded; they couldn't just wait forever. Elena picked up the knife, her phone lighting up again with his name. She'd answer eventually. But first, she would eat the damn papaya, take her vitamins, and remember that some things were worth growing alone.