What the Cat Knows

The papaya sat on the counter, its yellow-green skin mottled like a bruised sunset. Maya had bought it on impulse, something tropical and bright to counteract the gray of her studio apartment, but now it just reminded her of Marcus—how he'd always cut fruit for her, precise segments arranged on white ceramic plates.

Her cat, Figaro, wound through her legs, purring insistently. At least someone still wanted her attention. Since Marcus moved out two weeks ago, Maya had been surviving on takeout and silence, her hair unwashed, her phone screen illuminating only spam calls and her mother's tentative texts.

A scratching sound at the door. Figaro's ears perked up.

Maya opened it to find her neighbor David, holding a small bag. "Figaro got out again," he said, then gestured to his own apartment. "Cookie's been crying for an hour. They're friends, I think."

Cookie was his dog—a nervous terrier mix withpatchy fur and anxious eyes. Maya had seen David in the hall sometimes, always wearing his work uniform, always looking as tired as she felt.

"Come in," she said, surprising herself. "Coffee?"

They sat on her fire escape sharing the papaya she'd finally cut, watching the city darken. David told her about his divorce—six months, not two weeks, but the hollow feeling was the same. His hair was graying at the temples, and there were lines around his eyes that spoke of nights spent overthinking.

"Funny," Maya said, feeding Figaro a piece of fruit. "We live six feet apart and neither of us knew the other was drowning."

"We're not drowning," David said, his hand brushing hers as he reached for another slice. "We're just treading water until we remember how to swim."

Figaro purred louder. Somewhere in David's apartment, Cookie had finally stopped crying. The papaya was sweet, slightly alien on Maya's tongue, but not bad. Not bad at all.