The Rot We Ignore

Maya found the cat on the fire escape, its ribs showing through matted fur like the bars of a cage. She'd been feeding it for weeks—papaya she stole from the office breakroom, cubed and offered on paper towels. The fruit was cheap, easy to pilfer from the communal bowl her coworkers picked at while discussing quarterly projections and whose turn it was to brew coffee. The cat ate greedily, always looking over its shoulder as if expecting betrayal.

Inside, David was asleep in front of the television again. His spinach salad from dinner sat wilted on the counter, dressing congealing in the bottom of the bowl like the conversation between them had been doing for months. She'd told him about the cat once. He'd asked if it was carrying diseases, if she'd gotten shots, if the landlord knew. He hadn't asked why she needed something to care for.

Lightning cracked the sky open, illuminating the apartment in harsh relief. Maya counted the seconds—one, two, three—before thunder rattled the windowpanes. She used to love storms. They'd stand on this balcony together when they first moved in, holding mugs of tea, watching the city flash white and black. Now she watched alone, the cat pressing its wet body against her ankle.

The papaya was gone. The cat licked her finger, rough tongue like sandpaper, like all the things they'd stopped saying to each other. You're beautiful. I'm proud of you. What's wrong?

She remembered their wedding, how David had promised to choose her every day. Now he chose sleep, chose silence, chose anything but the work of being present. The spinach would be thrown away tomorrow, like the carton of milk last week, like the letter from her mother she still hadn't opened.

The cat disappeared into the night as the rain began. Maya stood alone on the fire escape, lightning splitting the darkness again and again, each flash showing her exactly what her life had become: a series of small, ignored rotting things, piling up while everyone pretended nothing was wrong.