What We Leave Behind

The papaya sat on the counter, more ripe than when she'd bought it two days ago. Its skin freckled with brown, softening at the center where she'd pressed her thumb. She'd meant to eat it. They'd meant to share it. That was the problem with intentions—they cluttered up the space between what happened and what you told yourself would happen.

Sarah stood in the kitchen of the apartment they'd shared for three years, waiting for the coffee maker to finish its agonizing drip. The coiled cable from James's headphones still lay on the counter, a black snake she'd asked him to put away a dozen times. Now it would stay there forever, or until she found the strength to touch something that still held the shape of his hands.

In the living room, the goldfish orbited its plastic castle in slow, patient circles. James had bought it on impulse during the second week of their relationship—"something to take care of together," he'd said, like a rehearsal. The fish had outlasted his enthusiasm, her patience, and now, apparently, them. She'd always meant to name it. That was another thing.

The spinach in the crisper drawer had gone slimy at the edges. She'd planned to make that salad she claimed to love, the one with the lemon dressing he'd perfected after four attempts and too much garlic. Last night, when he told her he was leaving, she'd stared at his hands and thought about how they'd chopped spinach together, how they'd done everything together except the part where they stayed happy.

Something brushed against her ankle—the cat, finally deciding to acknowledge her presence. Sarah scooped him up, buried her face in soft orange fur. "He's not coming back," she whispered, as if the cat might care. As if the cat hadn't been James'sShadow in everything but name for three years, following him from room to room, sleeping in the curve of his knees.

The cat purred, kneading her shoulder with practiced indifference. Some losses were absolute. Others you learned to accommodate.

She set him down gently. Through the window, the morning light was beginning to soften the edges of everything—the papaya, the cable, the fish swimming its endless loop. She would clean the spinach later. She would eat the fruit before it rotted. She would learn to live in rooms that didn't smell like him.

But not today. Today, she would drink her coffee and watch the fish and pretend that every object in this apartment wasn't shouting his name.