What Rots Between Us

The papaya sat on the counter for three days before Elena noticed the skin had gone from green to an angry, mottled yellow. She sliced it open anyway. The flesh was soft, giving too easily under her knife, perfuming the small kitchen with that sickly sweet scent that always reminded her of hotel breakfast buffets in countries she'd visited with people she no longer spoke to.

Mark came home at eight, smelling of office air conditioning and someone else's perfume. Not an affair—just the new associate, fresh out of grad school, who wore floral scents that clung to everything like accusations.

"There's papaya," Elena said, not looking up from her spinach, which had wilted into something resembling pond scum. "If you want."

"I'm not hungry." He dropped his keys on the counter. The sound was sharp in their too-quiet apartment.

She took a sip of water. The glass was sweating against her palm. "We need to talk about the bedroom."

"Not tonight."

"It's been six months, Mark."

"I know." He rubbed his temples. "Work has been—"

"Work has been work since 2019." Her voice stayed even, which felt worse than screaming. "I bought new sheets."

He looked at her then. Really looked. "What's wrong with the old ones?"

"Everything."

The papaya on his plate glistened. He took a bite, chewed slowly, swallowed. "It's overripe," he said.

"I know."

"Why did you buy it?"

"Because I thought if I waited long enough, it would get better." She stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. "That's what I do now. I wait. I water things. I hope."

He reached across the table, his palm warm against her hand, but she pulled away.

"The papaya isn't going to ripen again," she said. "And neither are we."