The Papaya on the Counter

The papaya sat on the counter like an accusation, its skin mottling from green to an aggressive yellow. It had been four days since Maya left, taking the cat but leaving the goldfish—that glass-eyed oracle with its three-second memory and perpetual surprise. I'd been moving through my apartment like a zombie, relearning how to occupy space alone. The papaya had been her idea, something she'd picked up at the market on Sunday, full of plans to make smoothies and start fresh. Now it ripened without us. The dog, Buster, kept watching the door, his tail giving these tentative thumps whenever footsteps echoed in the hallway, then sinking when they passed by. He'd stopped eating his kibble, just nudged it around the bowl like he was searching for something he'd lost. I sat on the floor with him tonight, both of us staring at the papaya, this exotic foreign object that had no business in our gray Chicago winter. Buster rested his heavy head on my knee, sighing that long, shuddering sigh dogs do when they're trying to tell you something they don't have words for. I thought about cutting into the fruit, finally, but somehow letting it rot felt more honest. Like maybe if I waited long enough, Maya would walk back through the door and we'd spoon its soft flesh into bowls, laugh about how long we'd let it sit, pretend we hadn't spent the week avoiding each other's eyes across the dinner table. But the goldfish just swam its endless laps, mouth opening and closing in silent testimony to how little it understood. The papaya would collapse soon. The dog would eventually eat. And somewhere, in another apartment, the cat was probably already forgetting me. Time worked like that—it didn't need permission to keep moving.