What We Bear in Summer

The papaya sat on the counter, already softening at the edges. Three days since he left, and the fruit he'd bought with such enthusiasm—"Exotic, Elena, don't you want to try something new?"—was already turning to mush before she could bring herself to cut it open.

Outside, lightning cracked the sky in two, sudden and violent. The storm had been threatening all afternoon, the air heavy with that particular electricity that makes the hair on your arms stand up. She watched from the kitchen window as rain began to hammer against the glass.

He'd always loved storms. Called them nature's drama. Said they made him feel alive. Now, alone in their apartment, Elena wondered if that was code—if what he'd really meant was that domesticity, the slow ripening of their life together, hadn't been enough.

"I can't bear it anymore," he'd said, and she'd thought he meant his mother's cancer, the mounting medical bills, the way they'd stopped touching each other in bed. But he'd meant all of it. Her too.

She picked up a knife. The papaya's skin yielded easily, revealing bright orange flesh dotted with black seeds. It smelled sweet, faintly musky. She took a bite, standing over the sink, juice running down her chin. It was nothing like she expected. Neither terrible nor wonderful. Just fruit.

Lightning flashed again, closer this time. The building shook with thunder. In the sudden illumination, she caught her reflection in the darkened window—gray hair falling loose from its bun, eyes that looked older than thirty-five should. She'd always feared storms. He knew that. Had held her through dozens of them over eight years.

The papaya seeds slipped through her fingers, round and slippery, like small black tears. She ate until her stomach ached with sweetness, until the storm passed and the kitchen grew quiet again. Some things you bear. Some you don't.