The Weight of Waiting

The papaya sat on my desk like an accusation. Carlos had brought it from his mother's garden, still warm from the sun, and now it watched me as I typed out yet another termination letter. My gray hair—my hair, the one thing I still recognized as mine—fell in my eyes, and I pushed it back with fingers that felt like they belonged to someone else.

"You're carrying the world on your shoulders, Maya," he'd said, pressing the fruit into my palm. His dark eyes held that familiar look, the one that made me remember nights we'd spent talking about everything and nothing. The ring on his fourth finger caught the fluorescent light. A promise to someone else.

I thought about David, my ex. The stubborn bastard who'd refused to bear the weight of our failed attempts at a family. He'd called our dog—the retriever we'd adopted during that optimistic first year—"a practice run" for children we'd never have. When Buster died, David said we should just get another. Just like that. As if grief were something you could exchange and return.

The office door opened. Mr. Richardson marched in, full of bluster and testosterone, like a bull in a china shop of other people's emotions. "Maya, those numbers don't make sense. Fix them."

The papaya's skin was beginning to bruise where I'd gripped it too hard. Like everything else.

"I can't do this anymore," I whispered to Carlos later, in the breakroom that smelled of burnt coffee and stale resignation. He didn't ask what. He just took the papaya from my hand, sliced it open with a pocket knife. The flesh was bright orange, impossibly vibrant against the gray corporate walls.

"Then don't," he said, offering me a piece. "Not forever. Just for now."

His wedding band glinted. I took the papaya, tasted sweetness like a memory of something I'd forgotten I needed. For once, I didn't bear it alone.