The Weight of Things Unspoken

The papaya sat on the counter, its orange flesh already softening at the edges. Marcus had brought it over—a peace offering, or maybe just habit. Three years of marriage, and he still thought tropical fruit could fix what we'd broken.

"You should eat it before it turns," he said, leaning against my kitchen island like he belonged there. The divorce papers had been final for six months. Some men don't know when to leave.

I thought about the cat—Barnaby—that I'd taken when I moved out. Marcus had wanted the dog. Some choices were clearer than others.

"I'm seeing someone," I said. The words tasted like spinach, fibrous and caught in my throat. Not a lie, not exactly. Aaron from accounting had asked me to dinner three times. I'd said no each time, but the possibility existed. It was something.

Marcus straightened. "Who?"

"Does it matter?"

"No." He picked up his keys. "Just wanted you to know—she's not what you think."

She. The fox-red woman I'd seen him with at Whole Foods, her hand resting on his arm like she had rights. I'd imagined her cunning, manipulative. Maybe she was just lonely. Maybe we all were.

The weight of it sat on my chest again, that bear I'd been carrying around since the mediation. The house, the dog, the way he could still read my silence.

"I don't think about her," I said, and it was mostly true. What I thought about was the way he never asked me what I wanted anymore. How love could calcify into something you tolerated instead of chose.

He nodded, already at the door. "The papaya," he reminded me.

"I'll eat it."

I threw it out after he left. Some peace offerings you just can't swallow.