What We Fed the Cat

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin freckling with age. It was meant for our anniversary dinner three weeks ago—the one Marcus cancelled because he had to "work late." But I'd seen his Instagram. Marcus at the W Hotel bar, some woman's hand on his forearm.

Now the papaya was softening into surrender.

I sliced it anyway. The cat, Bast, watched from the refrigerator—yellow eyes tracking the blade like she knew something I didn't. She'd been a wedding present. "Cats choose their humans," his sister had said. "If she stays, it's meant to be."

Bast stayed. But Marcus was leaving his things in boxes by the door.

The spinach salad came next. We'd planted that garden together in April, when we still believed in "forever." The spinach was the only thing that survived the aphids, the heat, our neglect.

Marcus called from the pool. "You coming out? Water's perfect."

We'd bought this house for the pool. I'd wanted herbs; he wanted the pool for parties we never threw. Now he floated on his back, face to the sky, like he was already gone.

I set the table on the patio. Papaya glistening, spinach dressed with lemon and regret. Bast jumped down and wound between my ankles, purring.

When Marcus pulled himself from the water, dripping and smiling, I didn't smile back.

"You're leaving," I said.

He stopped smiling. "Clara told you."

"The papaya knows," I said. "The spinach knows. The damn cat probably knows."

"I didn't want to hurt you," he said, water pooling at his feet.

"You just wanted to not be here."

He didn't deny it. That was the worst part.

Bast climbed into his lap and he buried his face in her fur. When he looked up, I saw it: the relief he'd been carrying for months.

"Eat," I said. "Before everything turns to mush."

We ate in silence. Papaya sweet as dying dreams. Spinach bitter as truth. The cat watching like she knew something we didn't: that some things end, and some things begin again.

After dinner, he packed his car. I watched from the window, Bast on my shoulder. When he drove away, I didn't cry. I just cleared the table, papaya sweetness lingering on my tongue, and began to imagine what I might plant where the spinach had been.

Something with thorns, I thought. Something that bites back.