The Papaya Sunset

The papaya sat on my kitchen counter, overripe and weeping golden tears. Marcus had brought it home yesterday, the same day he told me he was leaving for Portland. 'It's not about us,' he'd said, his baseball cap pulled low enough that I couldn't see his eyes. 'It's about me figuring out who I am when I'm not half of something.'

I picked up the fruit, its skin suddenly feeling too much like skin—soft, yielding, fragile. The orange glow of sunset spilled through the window, catching dust motes that danced like microscopic stars. Somewhere beyond the glass, a fox darted between houses, its red coat brilliant against the fading light.

We'd met at a baseball game three years ago. Seventh inning stretch, he'd caught a foul ball and given it to me instead of the kid next to him. 'You look like you need this more,' he'd said. I was twenty-seven, spiraling after a promotion that had eaten my life whole. His hat was backward then. He looked like he'd never hurt anyone.

I cut the papaya now, its flesh the color of something already gone wrong. Black seeds scattered across the cutting board like bitter thoughts.

The truth was, I understood his leaving. Maybe too well. We'd become comfortable in our shared solitude, two people who'd forgotten how to be alone. Love wasn't supposed to feel like habit.

The fox appeared again at the edge of the yard, watching me through the glass with ancient, knowing eyes. Then it turned, tail flashing like a flame, and disappeared into the darkening woods.

I put the papaya in a bowl. The orange light had deepened to purple, then charcoal. Somewhere in Portland, Marcus was probably driving, maybe already second-guessing. Or maybe he was feeling exactly what I was—that terrible, exhilarating vertigo of becoming yourself again.

I ate a piece of the fruit. It was sweet, faintly musky, nothing like I expected. Like endings sometimes are.