What Remains in the Water

The papaya sat rotting on the countertop for three days before Marcus could finally throw it away. It had been her favorite — she'd eat them with lime and chili, the juice staining her fingers like sunset. Now it was just fruit, brown and soft, another thing she wasn't coming back to eat.

He found himself at the pool anyway, standing at the edge where they'd drunk cheap wine last summer. The water reflected something he couldn't name. Not grief, exactly. Something smaller. The way her hair had smelled after chlorine and coconut conditioner, how she'd flip it wet against his shoulder, laughing when he pretended to be annoyed.

Their friend had called again this morning. "You need to get out of the house," Elena said, but she didn't understand. The house wasn't the problem. The problem was that everything was still exactly where she'd left it. The coffee mug with the chipped rim. Her half-finished jigsaw puzzle on the dining table.

The dog, Barnaby, nosed his ankle. He'd stopped waiting by the door weeks ago, stopped that hopeful whine when cars pulled into the driveway. Some betrayals you learn to live with.

Marcus stared at the pool until his eyes watered. In the end, he did what he always did when the silence got too loud — he texted Elena. "You were right about dinner. Come over?" Then he deleted the papaya from the grocery list, added something else, anything else, and wondered how long it would take before his own life felt like something he'd chosen rather than something he was waiting out.