The Papaya on the 42nd Floor

The papaya sat on Elena's desk like an accusation. At 7:48 AM on a Tuesday, it was the most interesting thing in her life — which told her everything she needed to know about the previous thirty-four years.

Her phone buzzed. Mark, again.

**Running late**. Can we do dinner? Your place?

She stared at the papaya's mottled yellow skin, the tiny office refrigerator humming behind her like a dying animal. Mark had been **running** late for six months of their relationship, since that promotion he'd chased like a **dog** after a stolen steak. The **cable** news droned from the breakroom television, something about markets and storms, always storms.

Her phone lit up again. **BULL** incoming.

That was their code for Richard, the VP who'd taken credit for Elena's quarterly report three times running. A **bull** in every sense — aggressive, stubborn, and prone to destroying whatever he couldn't conquer.

**Emergency meeting. 9 AM. Don't be late.**

Elena picked up her knife. The papaya's skin gave way with a surprising resistance, revealing bright orange flesh that felt obscene against the fluorescent office lighting. She'd bought it on impulse yesterday, tired of salads and tired of being tired.

Richard entered the glass-walled conference room at 8:59, his presence sucking the air out of the space. His watch cost more than Elena's car. His tie was silk, his temper short.

"Elena," he said, not looking at her. "The deck needs reformatting. Also, I told them you'd handle the client dinner Friday. Make it nice."

She'd missed Sarah's violin recital for the last client dinner. She'd missed her own birthday for the one before that.

The **cable** modem in her apartment had been dead since Thursday. She hadn't called to fix it because sometimes, silence was better than the alternative.

Richard's phone rang. He answered, his back to her. "Yeah, I'm **running** the meeting now. Give me five."

Elena looked at the papaya on her desk. She looked at Richard's back, the expensive suit straining against his frame, the way he leaned into his own importance like a tree growing toward poisoned light.

She stood up. Not to get coffee. Not to use the restroom.

She walked to her desk, picked up the papaya, and placed it in her bag. Then she walked to the elevator, pressed the button for the ground floor, and didn't look back at the glass walls or the man behind them.

Outside, the city hit her — humidity, exhaust, the **dog** walker with three golden retrievers, the woman selling fruit from a cart. Elena pulled the papaya from her bag and bit into it like an apple, juice running down her chin, sticky and absurd and alive.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Richard. Mark. Probably both.

She kept walking.