What Lightning Takes

The papaya sat on the counter for three days after she left, its green-yellow skin deepening into something that resembled forgiveness. I'd bought it for our anniversary, one of those stupid romantic gestures that feels different in retrospect. Now it was just fruit, ripening alone in our shared kitchen that wasn't shared anymore.

Her sister came over to pack her things. The cat—Barnaby, her emotional support animal, the court adjudicated—watched from atop the refrigerator, yellow eyes judging my inability to protest.

"She's not coming back," her sister said, taping boxes.

"I know."

"The papaya's going bad."

"I'll eat it."

I didn't eat it. That night, lightning struck the transformer down the street, and the whole neighborhood went dark. The flash illuminated everything I'd been avoiding: the half-empty closet, her coffee mug still by the sink, the papaya on the counter like some tropical symbol of my cowardice.

Barnaby jumped down and head-butted my ankle. He'd been sleeping on my side of the bed since she left. Some betrayal.

In the dark, with only the storm's intermittent illumination, I cut the papaya. It was perfectly ripe, soft and sweet in that way that feels almost obscene when you're alone. The seeds spilled out like small, slick possibilities.

I ate it standing at the sink, while lightning kept making everything bright and terrible, showing me the life I'd failed to protect. The cat wound around my legs, purring, and I realized too late that I should have fought for her. Should have thrown things, should have begged, should have done anything except let her walk away while I stood there like a man watching his own life from a distance.

The papaya was gone. The storm passed. The cat finally let me sleep. In the morning, I called her, but she'd changed her number.