The Papaya Sacrifice

David stood in the kitchen, the morning light filtering through the blinds in soft shades of orange. He held the papaya in his hands, ripe and yielding, its skin mottled like a bruised sunset. Sarah used to love these — would scoop out the seeds and eat it with lime, her bare feet on the dashboard of his old Honda, summer air streaming through the windows.

That was before the vitamins. Before the bathroom counter became a pharmacy of fertility supplements, folic acid and CoQ10 and everything the doctor said might help. Before their intimacy became scheduled, monitored, reduced to basal temperatures and ovulation kits.

"You going to eat that?" Sarah asked from the doorway. She looked exhausted, her eyes rimmed with red. "Or are we sacrificing it to the fertility gods again?"

David's jaw tightened. This was the fourth cycle. The fourth papaya he'd bought, thinking maybe this time would be different. Maybe she'd want it.

"I can make you a smoothie," he offered weakly.

She shook her head. "I have to get to work. The quarterly review is today, and my boss is riding me like a fucking bull. If I don't hit those numbers, they're going to trim the department."

David nodded. They were both tired. The fertility treatments cost thousands per cycle, and their savings were dwindling. Sarah's job was their lifeline.

"What about tonight?" he asked. "We could go to the baseball game. Jake got us tickets behind home plate."

"Tonight's the night, David." Her voice cracked. "The IUI is scheduled for seven."

Right. The intrauterine insemination. Medical intervention, because their bodies wouldn't do what they were supposed to do on their own.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. We'll do that."

He watched her walk away, her shoulders slumped. The papaya sat on the counter, its sweetness waiting. David thought about the baseball games they used to attend, back when they were young and broke and everything felt possible. Now they had money and careers and a house with a nursery they'd painted yellow, empty for three years.

He picked up his phone and called Jake. "Can't make it tonight."

Later, in the clinic waiting room, Sarah squeezed his hand. The vitamin bottle in her pocket made a small bulge against her scrubs. The papaya was rotting on their kitchen counter.

"Next time," she whispered. "We'll go to a game next time."

David nodded, but they both knew there might not be a next time. Some sacrifices don't get answered, even when you give everything.