What the Storm Left Behind

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin freckled with brown spots, mocking me with its persistent ripening. I'd bought it three days ago, back when I still believed Marcus would come back. Now it was just another thing in this house that had outlived its purpose.

Outside, the storm battered the glass doors leading to the pool. Rain slicked the concrete deck where we'd spent last July—drunk on cheap wine and the illusion that we were building something permanent. The pool cover had torn in October, right after he left, and I still hadn't called anyone to fix it. The water beneath was murky, collecting debris like my mind collected variations of our last conversation.

Lightning fractured the sky, and for a split second, the whole backyard lit up in stark relief. I saw the chaise lounge where he'd sat when he told me he'd met someone else. How casual he'd been, his voice flat, as if he were commenting on the weather.

"You're not happy either, Elena," he'd said. And the worst part was, some small, hollow part of me had nodded.

Buster whimpered from the corner, his gray muzzle resting on his paws. He'd been Marcus's dog originally, a rescue from some terrible situation upstate. Now Buster was my problem, my responsibility, my reminder. I scratched behind his ears, and he leaned into my touch, needy and grateful.

The television flickered and died. The cable connection had been unreliable for weeks, another thing I kept meaning to address. I fumbled for my phone instead, thumbs hovering over his name in my contacts. I'd deleted it twice, then re-added it from memory at 3 AM when the silence felt like it might crush me.

Another flash of lightning, and I saw my reflection in the glass—thirty-seven, alone in a house I couldn't afford, crying over a papaya that would never be eaten. Maybe Marcus was right about some things. Maybe I'd been waiting for this storm my whole life, waiting for something to force me to see what was already broken.

I sliced the papaya open. The flesh inside was still perfect, bright orange and impossibly sweet. I ate it standing at the counter, letting the juice run down my chin, not bothering to wipe it away. Tomorrow I'd call the cable company. Tomorrow I'd drain the pool. Tonight, I would just eat the fruit he'd never wanted and let myself miss him anyway.