What Remains in the Bowl

The papaya sat on the counter for three days before Maya noticed it had begun to collapse into itself, its once-vibrant orange flesh now weeping onto the granite. David had bought it. David, with his relentless optimism and his belief that if you just waited long enough, things would ripen into sweetness.

She dumped the fruit into the garbage disposal and watched it disappear.

The goldfish—stupidly named Nietzsche by David, who found philosophical fish hilarious—was still alive in its bowl on the windowsill. It had survived the breakup, the packing boxes, the silent dinner where they'd divided their assets like wartime rations. Now it floated near the surface, mouth opening and closing in that perpetual, gasping question.

"You're pathetic," Maya told it. She dropped a pinch of food onto the water's surface. The fish darted upward, grateful, oblivious.

Barnaby, their dog—no, her dog now—sighed from his bed in the corner. He was old, his muzzle gray, his joints stiff. He'd stopped waiting by the door for David's key in the lock weeks ago. Dogs learned. Dogs moved on. People were the ones who dragged their ghosts through apartments like wet umbrellas.

Maya's phone buzzed. A text from David: *Left my headphones. Can I come by Sunday?*

She stared at the message until the screen dimmed. The papaya was gone. The fish would probably outlive them all. The dog had already forgotten the sound of David's voice.

She typed: *Sunday works.* Then deleted it.

Typed again: *Check the mail slot. I'll leave them there.*

The fish swam in endless circles, trapped in its perfect little world. Maya pressed send, then turned off all the lights and let herself believe, just for tonight, that the darkness was something she'd chosen.