What Remains in the Bowl

The papaya sat on the counter between them, its skin mottled with yellow bruises like old jealousy. Three days ago, Marcus had brought it home from the market, holding it up like an exotic prize.

"Now we wait," he'd said. "For it to ripen. Three days."

Now it sat there, overripe and weeping onto the marble countertop, while cardboard boxes stacked up around them like walls being built between two countries.

"You're really taking Buster?" Elena asked, not looking at him. She was scraping at a label on a wine bottle with her thumbnail.

"He's my dog, El." Marcus's voice was tired. "You never wanted him anyway."

That wasn't true, and they both knew it. Buster had appeared on their third anniversary, a stray with matted fur and one ear that wouldn't stand up. Elena had carried him home in her raincoat, leaving a trail of muddy paw prints on the sidewalk. She was the one who'd woken up at 3 AM when he had the stomach virus last year, the one who knew exactly how to scratch behind his left ear to make his leg go thump-thump-thump like a dying heart.

"He likes you better," Marcus said now. "Anyway, you're keeping the apartment."

"And the fish," she said, gesturing toward the tank against the far wall.

The goldfish — a rescue from her niece's failed science fair project — swam in slow, indifferent circles. Elena had named him Kafka, something about existing in a glass bowl and never understanding why. The fish had outlived her niece's interest, outlived her parents' marriage, and would probably outlive whatever this thing was between her and Marcus.

"The fish doesn't count." Marcus picked up the papaya, its flesh giving under his fingers like something wounded. "You want this? It's finally soft."

"No. You take it."

"Elena."

"I'm not taking the fucking papaya, Marcus."

The silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating. Outside, rain began to drum against the windows, a sound that usually made her want to curl up with a book and Buster's warm weight against her feet. Instead she stood there, watching a man she'd loved for seven years pack his life into boxes, while their dog slept on the rug between them, dreaming of things that didn't include either of them.

"I was going to make a salad," Marcus said quietly. "With lime and chili. The way your mother taught us."

"Don't."

"It was going to be good."

"It's rotten now," she said. "Just leave it."

He dropped the papaya into the trash can. It made a wet, final sound against the plastic liner.

"Buster," Marcus called softly.

The dog lifted his head, looked from one to the other, then stood and stretched, his tags jingling like small bells. He walked to Marcus and waited by the door.

"Goodbye, Kafka," Marcus said, not looking at the fish tank.

Elena watched him lead the dog down the hallway, Buster's tail giving a small, hopeful wag that broke something inside her she didn't know could still break. The elevator dinged. The door clicked shut.

She stood alone in the apartment that was too quiet now, listening to the rain, while in the corner, Kafka swam in his endless circles, opening and closing his mouth, saying nothing at all.

The papaya in the trash was already beginning to smell sweet.