What We Keep

The papaya sat on the counter, its mottled yellow skin softening by the hour. Marcus had bought it two weeks ago, during that brief window when we still tried. 'Exotic,' he'd called it, like our marriage. Now it rotted between us, a metaphor we both ignored.

I watched our cat, Barnaby, curl around my ankles. He was the only one who didn't notice the tension thickening the air, the only one who still purred for both of us. Marcus watched from the doorway, his silhouette sharp against the hallway's dim light.

'The goldfish died,' he said.

I turned. 'What?'

'In the tank. The last one.' He stepped into the kitchen, his movements careful, like approaching a wounded animal. 'I flushed it this morning.'

We'd won that goldfish at a carnival three years ago, when we still believed in prizes and luck and happily ever afters. It had outlasted our passion, outlasted our attempts at counseling, outlasted everything but this slow-motion ending.

'That's sad,' I said, and meant it.

Marcus nodded. He picked up the papaya, weighed it in his palm. 'Remember when we thought this would be the year we tried new things?'

I did. January 1st, resolutions scrawled on cocktail napkins. Try new foods. Travel more. Make it work.

'You were full of bull,' I said softly, not quite smiling.

'Yeah.' His laugh was dry, brittle. 'I really was.' He squeezed the papaya gently. 'It's not even ripe yet. Just... damaged.'

'Throw it out,' I said.

He hesitated. 'Maybe we could cut around the bad parts.'

'Marcus.' I reached for Barnaby, buried my fingers in his fur. 'Sometimes things are too far gone.'

He looked at the fruit, then at me, really looked at me, for the first time in months. The papaya made a soft thud in the trash can. He didn't wash his hands before he touched my face, and I let him, because some messes you don't clean up right away.

'Tomorrow, then,' he said.

'Tomorrow,' I agreed, though we both knew tomorrow was just another word for eventually, and eventually had already come and gone.