What Remains

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin mottled with yellow like a bruise that wouldn't heal. Sarah had bought it on impulse—the kind of reckless purchase she'd made when Marcus still lived here, when they'd experiment with exotic fruits and pretend their marriage wasn't hollowing out like a termite-ridden beam. Now it sat there, mocking her. She picked up the knife.

Her mother had called again that morning. 'You need to take care of yourself, Sarah. At forty-five, you can't just—' She'd stopped listening after 'vitamin.' The word hung in the air like plaque, another reminder that she was failing at basic maintenance. The doctor had recommended B12 shots. She preferred wine.

The dog, Buster, scratched at the back door. Marcus's dog, technically—a golden retriever with anxiety issues and a tendency to chew drywall when left alone. She'd wanted to give him away after Marcus moved out. But Buster had looked at her with those dopey, trusting eyes, and she'd folded. That was her problem, wasn't it? Folding. Always folding.

She sliced the papaya open. Black seeds spilled onto the cutting board like something dead. The smell hit her—sweet, cloying, unfamiliar. She'd forgotten she hated papaya.

Outside, the sky turned that peculiar shade of green that precedes violence. Lightning struck somewhere close. The kitchen went white for a heartbeat, thunder following hard enough to rattle the windows in their frames. Buster whined.

'I know,' she said to the empty room.

She scraped the papaya into the trash. In the crisper drawer, a bag of spinach had gone slimy. She threw that away too. The refrigerator hummed, the only sound in a house that used to hold laughter, arguments, the weight of two people pretending they weren't lonely together.

Another flash of lightning illuminated the wedding photo on the fridge—her, smiling, not yet knowing she'd spend the next decade disappearing by degrees. She pulled it off with a single finger. The magnet clattered to the floor.

Buster pressed against her leg, his solid warmth anchoring her to the present. She sank to the kitchen tile and buried her face in his fur. He smelled like dirt and devotion.

'We're okay,' she whispered. The dog sighed, content. Outside, the rain began to fall, washing the world clean again, if only for tonight.