What We Carry Forward

Maria stood at the kitchen counter, mechanically folding spinach into the omelet pan. The leaves curled and wilted, surrendering to heat—the way so many things had between them. Behind her, David was running, his breath rhythmic and controlled on the treadmill they'd bought three years ago, another optimistic purchase from a marriage that kept accumulating things they couldn't quite make work.

"You're running too fast," she said, not turning around.

"Gotta keep the heart rate up." His voice sounded different over the mechanical whir of the belt—distant, like he was already halfway out the door.

The papaya sat on the cutting board, its sunset flesh exposed to the kitchen's fluorescent glare. She'd bought it on impulse yesterday, remembering how he'd loved it in Hawaii, that trip they'd taken when everything still felt possible. Now it sat between them, soft and tropical and impossibly sweet, waiting to be consumed before it rotted.

She turned off the stove. The spinach was overcooked anyway.

David stopped the treadmill and stepped off, wiping his face with a towel. He didn't look at her as he moved through the kitchen toward the shower, his shoulder brushing hers—a momentary collision that could have been intimacy, could have been accident, could have been nothing at all.

"The papaya's ready," she said to his retreating back.

"Not hungry."

Maria sat down at the table alone. The papaya flesh wept into the grooves of the cutting board. Outside, someone was running past their house—real running, not the stationary kind—footfalls echoing against the pavement like a heartbeat refusing to give up. She took a bite of the fruit anyway. It was sweeter than she remembered, almost sickeningly so, the kind of sweet that makes you wonder if you're tasting something real or just your own willingness to be fooled.