What Remains in the Refrigerator

The padel match had ended badly — my backhand sailed wide, and so did we, somewhere around the third set. Marcus stood at the net, sweat dripping from his forehead like an accusation. 'I think you're done,' he said, and for a terrible second I thought he meant the game.

I drove home with the windows down, running through the fight we'd had that morning, the one that felt different from all the others. The dog, Luna, waited at the door as always, her tail a metronome of unconditional affection, which somehow made it worse. She followed me to the kitchen where I opened the refrigerator and stared at the evidence of a shared life grown cold.

There was the spinach, starting to wilt in its plastic container — just like us, really. Green things that once seemed full of possibility now turning slimy at the edges. Beside it, a papaya I'd bought three days ago because he'd mentioned, once, in passing, that he liked it. He'd never eaten it. It sat there, ripening alone on the shelf, a tropical fruit in a temperate climate.

Luna whined at my feet, sensing what I refused to acknowledge. I closed the refrigerator door gently, as if silence could preserve what was already gone. The house was too quiet, filled with things we'd chosen together: the rug from Mexico, the stupidly expensive coffee maker, the matching towels that had seemed so romantic when we bought them.

Outside, someone was running past our house — their rhythmic footsteps puncturing the evening. I watched through the window as the jogger disappeared into the distance, carrying on, moving forward. Luna pressed her warm body against my leg, and for the first time in six years, I didn't know if I was staying or going. The papaya would be ripe tomorrow. The spinach would need to be thrown away. Some things, I realized, you can't save just by wanting to.