What Remains in the Refrigerator

Maya stood before the open refrigerator, the hum of the appliance the only sound in her apartment at 2 AM. The papaya sat on the middle shelf, its skin mottled with yellow and green, a relic of the grocery run she'd made with Elena three weeks ago. Back when they were still running together every morning, their footfalls matching rhythm on the waterfront path while Elena complained about her boss and Maya pretended not to notice how Elena's hand lingered on her arm when they stretched.

Now the papaya was ripening alone. Maya had bought it because Elena said she loved papaya, had talked about how her grandmother used to serve it for breakfast in Manila, but they'd never eaten it together. The day after the grocery run, Elena had sent the text: I can't do this anymore. I'm not ready.

Maya had texted back: No worries. Just friends? Then added a spinach emoji because it was supposed to be casual, light, the kind of thing a friend sends when everything is fine.

She hadn't heard from Elena since.

The spinach wilted in the crisper drawer, its leaves turning slimy where they touched. Maya had bought it for the salad they never made, the dinner they never ate, the conversation they never had about the moment at the café when Elena had leaned across the table and said, "What if we're more than friends?" — then pulled back like she'd touched a hot stove.

Outside, a fox cried in the alley, that sharp barking sound that always sounded like laughter. Maya remembered Elena telling her about the fox that lived near her apartment, how she'd leave out scraps and watch it from her window, how she said, "He's like me — always hungry, never settled." At the time Maya had thought it was romantic. Now she wondered if it was a warning.

She reached for the papaya, its skin giving slightly under her thumb. It was finally ripe. She cut it open, the flesh bright orange and perfumed, spooning out the black seeds that looked like small eyes. Standing in her kitchen in the fluorescent light, eating alone, she realized Elena had been right to leave. Some things ripen too late.

The fox cried again, closer this time. Maya finished her papaya and closed the refrigerator door.