What We Let Spoil

The papaya sat on the counter for three days before I threw it out. That's how long it took for Marcus to come home, sleep on his side of the bed, and leave again without a word about the flowers or the missed dinner or the way I'd started crying in the shower again.

He'd brought the papaya home from that bodega on 5th Street, the one with the flickering neon sign and the cat that slept on a stack of newspapers. I remember thinking: he remembered. After seven years of marriage, after I'd told him exactly twice that papaya was the only fruit that didn't make my throat itch, he'd finally brought one home. But it was soft already, yielding under my thumb like something that had given up.

The baseball game droned from the television. Marcus's team, the one his father had watched, the one we'd had season tickets to before the miscarriage, before the promotions, before everything became about optimizing our life together instead of living it. The announcer's voice washed over me—something about a bottom of the ninth, two outs, the weight of expectation pressing down on some twenty-year-old kid's shoulders.

I washed the papaya down the garbage disposal. It made a wet, sucking sound.

When Marcus came home that night, he smelled like office air and someone else's perfume—not floral, something sharp and chemical, like orange cleaner. He kissed my forehead and asked about dinner. I told him I'd thrown out the papaya.

"Oh," he said. "That's too bad."

"You brought it home three days ago," I said. "Did you even know?"

He looked at me then, really looked at me, and I saw what I'd been refusing to see for months. He wasn't forgetful. He wasn't overwhelmed. He was gone, had been gone for a long time, moving through our shared life like a ghost haunting his own marriage.

"I didn't think you'd want it," he said finally. "It was already soft."

Outside, a cat screamed—either fighting or fucking, impossible to tell which in the dark. The baseball game ended. The crowd roared.

"Everything spoils eventually," I said, and walked into the bedroom to pack a bag.