What We Carry

The farmers market was already sweating under the July sun when Elena's phone buzzed in her pocket. She ignored it, reaching instead for a bag of spinach, still damp with morning dew. Three days since Marcus left, and she was still shopping for two.

She moved to the citrus stall, testing the weight of an orange in her palm. Perfect, heavy, promising sweetness beneath the thick skin—everything their marriage hadn't been.

Her iphone vibrated again. Probably him. Probably wanting to know if he should come by for his things. Probably with some new excuse that sounded reasonable but felt like a knife.

"You gonna buy that, or just squeeze it all day?"

Elena looked up. It was the fox-eyed woman from the bakery, the one with the chaotic curls and the knowing smile who always seemed to see too much. They'd talked once, weeks ago, when Elena was buying a birthday cake she could no longer remember the occasion for.

"Right," Elena said, dropping the orange into her basket. "Sorry."

"He's not coming back, you know." The woman wasn't smiling now. "The one you're waiting for."

Elena felt herself crack open, right there between the organic kale and the free-range eggs. "How did you—"

"Because I was you, three years ago." The woman's fingers twisted a silver ring on her left hand, then moved to bare skin. "Waited by this exact stall. Thought if I bought all his favorites, if I kept the fridge stocked with things he liked, he'd remember what he'd walked away from."

"And did he?"

"No." The woman's laugh was sharp and didn't reach her eyes. "But I learned to eat alone. And eventually, I learned to eat things I actually liked. You ever notice how we always buy spinach? Because someone told us it was good for us?"

Elena looked at the spinach in her basket. She hated spinach. She always had.

"What did you like?" Elena asked.

"Ice cream for dinner. Cake for breakfast. Things that make you feel alive, not just responsible." The woman gestured to the oranges. "Those are amazing. Peel one right now. Don't wait."

Elena's phone buzzed again—Marcus, asking about the furniture. She took the orange from her basket, dug her thumbnail into the skin, and tore it open. The scent burst forth, bright and uncompromisingly itself. She bit into a segment, juice running down her chin, not bothering to wipe it away.

Some things you bear. Some things you eat while they're still breathing. And some things, finally, you let rot.