The Weight of What Remains

The coaxial cable lay coiled on the floor like a dead snake. Elena stared at it for twenty minutes before finally unplugging the television entirely. David had been the one to install it, his hands sure and confident as he crimped the connectors, explaining something about signal strength she hadn't really listened to. Now that explanation seemed like another small thing she'd never have again.

Her mother called at eight. "You should eat something, honey."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. I can hear it in your voice. Have you tried that papaya salad recipe I sent?"

Elena looked at the fruit bowl on her counter. The papaya sat there, ripening faster than she could use it, its skin turning from green to an urgent yellow. Another thing she'd bought because David had mentioned liking it once, in passing, and she'd spent three years collecting these small preferences like they were precious metals.

The cat—Barnaby—brushed against her legs, meowing. He was David's cat, technically, though Elena had been the one feeding him and cleaning his litter box for four years. Now that David was gone, Barnaby seemed to have decided Elena would do.

"Traitor," she whispered, but she picked him up anyway, burying her face in his soft fur.

At eleven, she finally went to the kitchen. She had a bag of spinach that was starting to wilt, some feta cheese, the papaya. She made herself a salad, eating standing up at the counter, not bothering with a plate. The papaya was sweeter than she expected, almost cloying. The spinach tasted like regret.

She caught her reflection in the darkened window. Her hair, usually so carefully maintained, hung limp. She'd stopped straightening it three days ago. The natural wave made her look like someone else—someone softer, someone who hadn't spent their thirties trying to become the person David wanted.

Elena set down the fork. Barnaby watched her from the counter, tail twitching.

"You know what?" she said to the cat. "I never even liked papaya."

The truth of it settled over her like cool water. She scraped the rest of the salad into the trash, washed the plate, and went to bed without checking her phone. Tomorrow, she'd call the cable company. She'd buy cat food that Barnaby actually liked. She'd figure out who she was when no one was watching.

For now, she slept.