What Remains in the Bowl

The papaya sat on her counter like an accusation. Three weeks since the funeral, and Elena still couldn't bring herself to touch the damn thing. Marcus had bought it—their last shopping trip together, he'd been so excited about this "tropical fruit phase" he'd declared they were entering. Now it softened quietly in the July heat, its skin freckling with brown spots that matched the liver spots on his hands.

She chopped spinach instead. Methodical, safe. The knife's rhythm against the cutting board was the only thing that felt steady lately. Spinach wilted in the pan, surrendering the way she hadn't been able to—everything in her still fighting against the reality of a half-empty bed, a toothbrush holder with space for one.

A cat appeared at her kitchen window. Orange tabby, emaciated, with matted fur that had seen better decades. It meowed, a sound that cracked something open in her chest. Elena opened the window.

"You too, huh?" she whispered. "Who fed you before?"

The cat jumped onto the counter, its fur tickling her arm. Stray hairs caught in the fabric of her blouse—white hairs, like the ones that had begun appearing at Marcus's temples last year. She'd teased him about it, called him her silver fox. Now she'd give anything to run her fingers through that hair again.

She tore off a piece of papaya, its flesh shockingly orange against her pale fingers, and offered it. The cat lapped it up greedily.

"Enjoy," she said. "He'd want someone to."

The spinach burned. Smoke curled up from the pan, acrid and final. Elena turned off the flame, let the cat finish the papaya while she watched smoke drift toward the ceiling where Marcus's laughter used to echo.

Tomorrow she'd call the neighbor about the cat. Tonight, she ate burnt spinach alone.