The Preservation of Sweet Things

Maya stood in the fluorescent-lit grocery aisle at 11 PM, clutching a papaya like it was the last stable thing in her life. The fruit felt alien in her hands—too heavy, too promising. Three weeks ago, David would have sliced it with that ridiculous ceremonial knife he'd bought in Mexico, making a whole production of removing the black seeds while she pretended to be impressed by his domesticity.

Now the papaya sat in her basket next to a bottle of vitamin D supplements. The doctor had recommended them after she mentioned feeling tired all the time, but she knew better. It wasn't a deficiency. It was grief, moving through her like weather.

She'd started buying oranges too—stacks of them in a bowl on the counter, their bright skins a small rebellion against the grayness of her apartment. Each morning she'd peel one, the citrus spray sharp and sudden against her eyelids, the scent so vivid it made her remember things she'd rather forget: David's hands sticky with juice, the way he'd laughed when she'd gotten pulp in her hair during that beach trip, the particular orange glow of their bedroom at sunset when they still believed they had time.

The vitamin bottle promised renewal on its label. Guaranteed potency. But Maya knew better than anyone that some things couldn't be supplemented back into existence.

A woman in the next aisle was arguing on the phone with someone named Michael, her voice rising and falling like siren music. Maya watched her reflection in the freezer doors—thirty-eight, alone in a grocery store, holding fruit that would probably rot before she found the appetite to cut it.

She left the papaya on the shelf. Some sweetness was meant to be left unpreserved.