What We Leave Behind
The papaya sat rotting on the kitchen counter, its once-vibrant orange flesh now collapsing into itself like a small, forgotten sun. Maria hadn't touched it since the day David walked out — three weeks ago tomorrow. Some things you just can't throw away, even as they spoil beneath your gaze.
She'd been running every morning at 5 AM, before the Florida heat turned the air into something you had to chew. The rhythm of her breath and footfalls was the only thing that drowned out the silence in the house. That, and the dog.
Buster had been David's idea. A rescue with separation anxiety and a tendency to chew baseboards when left alone — much like Maria herself, now that she thought about it. But Buster had stopped eating two days ago, and the veterinarian's words still echoed in her head: "It's time. There's nothing more we can do."
The pool in the backyard had been their pride and joy, the selling point that had made them sign the mortgage papers. Now it was just a stagnant body of water, collecting leaves and memories alike. She caught herself staring at it sometimes, wondering what it would feel like to just sink beneath the surface, let the water take everything.
Instead, she made the appointment.
The euthanasia was scheduled for Thursday morning. She booked the day off work, told her boss it was a family matter. In a way, it was.
They'd bought the papaya at a farmers' market the weekend after they closed on the house. David had held it up like a prize, grinning. "Exotic fruit for our exotic new life." That life lasted exactly seventeen months.
Buster lay on his favorite spot by the sliding glass doors, watching the pool. Maria sat beside him, stroking his matted fur. She should have taken better care of both of them.
"You ready, buddy?" she asked, though she knew he couldn't understand.
His brown eyes met hers, and for a moment, she saw something like gratitude. Or maybe that was just her own desperation reflected back.
The injection was quick. One moment he was there, the next he was just a body, the thing that made him Buster gone forever. The vet left her alone with him for a few minutes. She sat on the linoleum floor, the papaya still rotting on the counter at home, and let herself cry for the first time since David left.
Some endings are kinder than others. Some come with warning — the decline, the diagnosis, the slowly cooling embers of a marriage. Others just arrive suddenly, like a papaya you forgot to eat, beautiful and then ruined before you can stop it.
She buried Buster in the backyard, near the pool where he'd loved to lay in the sun. Then she threw the papaya in the trash and finally called the divorce lawyer.