What the Storm Takes

Maria stood at the kitchen counter at 3 AM, slicing papaya with surgical precision. The fruit was too ripe, its flesh yielding beneath her knife like something that had already given up. She'd bought it because David loved it — because three years ago, he'd looked at her across a farmer's market table and said, 'I haven't had papaya since I was a kid,' and she'd made it her mission to bring that memory back to him.

Now David was gone. Not dead, just — gone. A week ago, he'd packed a suitcase and said, 'I need to find myself,' which was middle-aged code for 'I met someone else.' Maria had watched his hair — thick, silver-streaked, the way she used to run her fingers through it while they watched movies — disappear around the corner of their bedroom door, and she hadn't followed.

The first lightning strike illuminated the kitchen through the rain-slicked window. The storm had been building for hours, a pressure in the air that matched the pressure in her chest. She wondered if he was thinking of her now, if he was somewhere warm and dry, or if he'd already forgotten the way she took her coffee, the sound of her laugh, the constellation of moles along her left shoulder.

She'd taken up running after he left. Something about the rhythmic punishment of feet against pavement, the way her lungs burned and her vision narrowed to the space directly ahead of her. It was the only time her brain went quiet — when her body was working this hard, there was no room for memories, no room for the constant rehearsal of conversations she'd never have with him.

Another flash of lightning, closer now. The papaya sat in a bowl on the counter, glistening in the sudden brightness, and she realized she was still holding the knife. She thought about how David had always hated storms, how he'd make them tea and wrap them both in blankets on the couch, and she'd rest her head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat until the thunder passed.

Maria put down the knife. She picked up a piece of papaya and ate it standing at the window, watching the lightning carve the sky into pieces, letting herself feel whatever was left when the storm finally broke.