The Papaya on the Counter

Elena sat at the kitchen counter, the fluorescent light humming overhead, counting the minutes until Mark would be home. The papaya she'd bought at that specialty grocery store—the one he swore he'd never step foot in—sat ripe and yellow on the cutting board. Its sweet, musky scent filled the small apartment, a reminder that she'd stopped waiting for his permission to make small decisions.

Outside, the rain lashed against the windows. Somewhere in the distance, a cat yowled, a sound that made her think of the stray that had started hanging around their building last month. Mark had threatened to call animal control, but Elena had been leaving it food. Another small rebellion.

The cable guy had been here earlier—young, with tired eyes and wedding ring tan line. He'd fixed the television that Mark claimed had been malfunctioning for weeks, though Elena suspected he just wanted an excuse to avoid conversation. The cable guy had lingered at the door, asking about her day, really asking. For a moment, she'd considered inviting him in. Instead she'd paid and closed the door, heart pounding.

She remembered Mark's stories from his conference in Seattle—the bear encounter he'd described over the phone, breathless with excitement. How he'd seen it at the edge of the trail, how it had looked him in the eye before lumbering away. He'd said it changed everything. He hadn't elaborated.

The papaya's skin gave easily under her knife. Inside, seeds clustered like black pearls. She wondered if Mark would notice she'd bought it. If he'd notice anything anymore.

When the key finally turned in the lock, she didn't stand up. He came in wet and smelling of whiskey, not rain. "Elena?" he called, not quite looking at her. "We need to talk."

She took a bite of papaya. It tasted like loss and possibility. "I know," she said. "So talk."