The day had been long — too many people, too many questions. After leaving her desk with all the paperwork done, she barely dragged herself to the parking. When she slid into the seat, she realized how exhausted she was. First, she unbuttoned her shirt and untied the sash belt. After kicking off her heels, she wiggled her toes with relief before slipping into her slides. The rearview mirror showed a tired face with smudged makeup. She didn’t cry; she didn’t have time to do it, although during the day she occasionally felt urges to do it, especially when someone looking like him passed through the hall. Anything reminded her of him: someone’s height, skin tone, hairstyle, the color of a shirt.

She didn’t quite remember how she got home. She was on autopilot. The drive home passed in a blur, like a hole in time. She just found herself in front of her building.

The flat was dark. The cold floor felt nice under her feet, and once she changed to cozy clothes, she felt lighter.

There was enough ready-made food in the fridge, so she didn’t need to cook. If he had been there, she would have served a full-course meal, but now she didn’t even want to warm up anything. She pulled out the pot with lentil stew. Not bothering with a bowl, she just grabbed a spoon and sat at the table.

She was so happy doing things for him. Months blissfully passed with her firmly believing that he was the one and that her life finally made sense. Then it all changed. He was constantly busy. She kept pretending all was fine. All her thoughts revolved around what she could do for him, how to please him, what food to cook for him, what to buy him… Then days would pass and he wouldn’t come. He wouldn’t even reply to messages for a day or two, and when he did, the replies were brief, each one colder than the last. Colder than that stew.

She was still hungry, so she went back to the fridge and took a vanilla Greek yogurt and a box of fruit salad her friend had bought her. The small colorful cubes looked cheerful. Most of them were papaya.

During their last fight, when it was already clear it was over but she kept insisting they could still make it work if only he wanted to, she played her last card. “Good food or good sex, those are the surest ways to a man’s heart,” her grandmother used to say. She was wrong. He said he would rather fuck a papaya again for the rest of his life than do it with her.

Back in the happy days, when they still shared everything, he had told her about that phase of his with no shame whatsoever. Apparently, it was something boys did there. A picture of it, him as a horny teenager, flashed through her mind, but she quickly shook her head to chase it away.

“He must have used a lot of papayas to become that good,” she remembered the nights when she was a better choice than the fruit.

She absent-mindedly stabbed the fruit with her fork, leaving tiny dotted patterns.

“It must be some curse. How come all men I’ve been dating cheated on me and left me? Something’s wrong with me.”

The other day in the canteen, she overheard two women talking about a medium one of them had visited regarding her ex-boyfriend. She was convinced he simply needed a little help to make the right decision and come back to her. The reading had been uncannily accurate, leaving the woman with no doubt the spell would work.

Looking at the now mushy orange heap on her plate, she decided to try that. She knew exactly whom to ask for more information. With thoughts of a future where everything was perfect again, she drifted off to sleep.

As she’d expected, her colleague not only knew the place, but also wanted to go herself — for a very different reason. Unlike her, she wanted to get rid of her man and break their toxic relationship for good.

“He needs to go, dead or alive, I don’t care anymore. But don’t worry, this woman is good, she is known to solve any kind of problem. It can be pricey, you know, she’s famous. I will pay whatever. It’ll probably cost me less than dealing with this jerk.”

Her colleague wasted no time. The appointment was set for the next day. She only needed to bring two new red candles, and cash, of course. She wondered where to buy red candles. It wasn’t the Christmas season. Maybe they wouldn’t have any. If she didn’t find it, would small birthday ones do? For the rest of the workday, every free moment, she was obsessing about the right candles.

On her way home, she dropped by a shopping mall to withdraw the cash from an ATM. There was a home goods shop. Surely they’d have candles there. When she found what she was looking for, it felt as if half the mission was already accomplished. The scent was not very appealing, some strange floral blend, like a dish soap, but the color was bright, like the poinsettia. She bought several, just in case. Anything could happen, and not the tiniest scratch was acceptable. It had to be perfect.

The next day, after work, two women in the same uniforms with red candles in their purses, headed off to solve their love lives. In the car, they didn’t discuss much of the upcoming session, as if they were afraid their doubts might slip out and discourage the other person.

She knew that neighborhood. She couldn’t have gone there alone.

They had to ask several people for directions until they finally managed to find the place. The lady was indeed famous — everyone knew her, but the labyrinth of small streets was completely illogical to navigate even with instructions. There, at the end of a small dirt road, stood a shabby house with a small front yard divided from the street with a wire fence, uneven and with large holes. Call it a house — it was more like a larger shed. Light pink and blue paint was peeling off the wood. Beside the front door, a small boy was sitting on a low plastic chair, playing with something that looked like it once was a train.

A woman in her fifties welcomed them. A light-blue dress with large yellow flowers clung tightly to her generous curves and ample bust. Her dark hair was firmly curled into a large bun.

“You’re just on time,” she said, and nodded to a boy to go away.

She looked ordinary. Nothing mystical, nothing to give away about her work. Even her name, Maria, was too common.

“Who goes first? Come on in. Your name again?”

The dirt floor simply continued from the outside to the inside of the house.

The single room was steeped in twilight, making the sparse furniture look older than it was. A worn-out brown sofa, and bulky, mismatched pieces of furniture seemed like they’d been collected decades apart. The flat-screen TV looked like an alien artefact that had accidentally landed there. On the table surrounded by a couple of massive, uncomfortable chairs there was a bowl with some mangos, red onions and a bunch of cilantro. A peach curtain with a beige zigzag pattern separated what served as a kind of kitchen. It was clearly someone’s home, yet it didn’t feel homey. It smelled surprisingly clean, a mix of soap and chlorine.

On the farthest corner, there was a very eclectic altar. A red satin cloth covered a tall table. Two flickering candles cast soft light over the peaceful faces of saints, tacky figurines, strands of colorful beads, bottles of liquor, a large bowl of burnt charcoal, plastic roses, and two green apples. A large strange symbol with a cross in the middle was drawn in chalk on the wall behind. Nothing spooky whatsoever, just overwhelming. So many items seemingly unrelated, yet they coexisted in that weird symbiosis.

Maria pulled one chair closer to the altar, and she sat clutching her purse in her lap, with a faint feeling like she was in the dock. Before being asked, she explained the situation, and her wish not to get things with him as they were, but to help him be happy.

“Let’s see what is really going on, what are the blockers. You have the candles, right?”

She took the candles.

“Full names, write them on this paper.”

She handed her a small notepad and a pen with the clicker missing. She then read them aloud, as if rehearsing, and then placed them on top of the altar’s charcoal bowl.

On the floor, in front of the altar, there were three square tiles laid in a row. On them, an enamel milk can, a large cup, and a washbasin, all white. They looked strangely orderly compared with everything around them. Maria poured water from the can to the basin and  turned to the altar. She was doing something there, swiftly moving her arms, but from the back it was impossible to tell exactly what. Only quiet chanting disrupted the silence. When she turned around the candles were lit and tied with a thin white rope. She continued to chant, and held the candles over the basin until wax began to drip. This lasted for quite a while, until there was a mound of cooled wax on the bottom.

Maria blew out the candles and laid them back on the altar’s charcoal pile. The chanting stopped. Squatting down, she started to examine the shape of the melted wax.

“Interesting… This is not your doing. He had another great love before you. And there was a dramatic end. This woman is now far away, but she bound him so he can never be happy with any other woman. A powerful spell. You cannot do anything, it’s not about you. You were meant to meet and be together, it’s destiny. He still loves you. But he cannot stay with you till this is upon him.”

It wasn’t her after all. Confirmed.

“That is horrible. What an evil person! He doesn’t need to stay with me.  I want him to be happy. Can’t you do something to help him?”

“Well… There is always a way. Your heart is pure, and you’re soulmates. If it weren’t the case, I wouldn’t interfere. No, never — it’s not good to do things when people are not meant to be.”

“So, you can do something?”

“Yes, but the spirits require offerings. They don’t work for free.”

Along with the hefty price on top of that day’s service fee, spirits needed a bottle of rum and a live chicken.

“Think about it. Are you willing to go that far to save him? Let me prepare today’s things.”

Maria poured the water from the basin to the cup, and placed it on the altar. She was busy with something there, chanting again.

Meanwhile, she was weighing the decision. It was not about money, although the price was almost equal to the whole month’s salary for many people. But then again, she would spend money on him in the other way. Wasn’t this a better gift?

Maria turned around holding a small red cloth pouch, not bigger than a business card. A white thread was wrapped around it several times.

“Take this and put it under your mattress, where your head rests. No other person must see it or touch it. Do not open it. After twenty-one nights, bury it in the ground, next to a plant. It can be a flowerpot if you have it.”

Then she handed her the enamel cup, almost full. A strong smell of cheap rose essential oil was lingering above it.

“Take this outside now, and wash yourself everywhere on your body. With that, today’s ritual is complete. Have you decided about the rest?”

The answer escaped before she could think.

“Yes, let’s do it. I have the money here. Let’s do it as soon as possible.”

She stood up, hurriedly opened her purse, grabbed the wallet, counted the money and handed it.

“No, not to me. Place it there on the altar.”

“All right. We can do it tomorrow. Come at the same time. Don’t worry, this will solve everything. Tell nobody. Just bring the rum and a chicken.”

She said it as if the chicken were meant for soup. Maybe it was.

“Now, go wash yourself. You will feel better afterwards. And don’t forget, no showering tonight, you must sleep over with it.”

She collected her things, nodded, and stepped outside, signaling to her colleague that it was her turn. She went to the plastic chair standing alone in the middle of the yard, and sat looking at the road. The boy was there, kicking a plastic bottle. The dust rose with each move, and she could see his feet and legs coated in it.

“Even if it was a scam, never mind. The money would feed this poor kid,” she thought. “I’ve already come this far. It’s already paid for. I have to do the last part. This will help him. Even if he doesn’t get back to me, at least he will be free. Who’s that evil woman who did this to him? As if he didn’t suffer enough growing up without a father? Maybe I was meant to save him. And this lady clearly said she wouldn’t do anything if she saw we were not destined. But we are! I just need to get that damn chicken.”

She dipped her hands into the water and dabbed it onto her neck, arms, and legs, reaching as much of herself as she could without lifting her skirt to an indecent height. She sprinkled some on her head, but there was still a lot of it left. No way she would undress just to cover the rest of her body with it. She took off her flats and splashed the remaining amount over her bare feet. The smell was overwhelming.

“This will at least repel the mosquitos.”

On the clothesline, a couple of sheets were fluttering on the evening breeze. The boy kept kicking the bottle, and its rattling mixed with the noisy cicadas into a strangely soothing cacophony. Time seemed to slow, as if it had shifted into a lower gear.

On the way back, she was mostly silent, while her colleague seemed energized, although she couldn’t share the details. That night, she woke up in a cold sweat several times. She kept dreaming of the red wax dripping from the dark ceiling all over her. Was it because of the red pouch below her mattress, the persistent rose smell on her skin, or the burden of what came next, it was not certain. However, the dark eye circles were.

The next day, she left work earlier, and went to the open farmers market. On a hot day, the mix of smells was dense and moist. The noise and buzz made everything heavier. At the first stall, she asked where the chickens were sold.

She had to pass through the whole market. Luckily, it was not so busy at that hour, so avoiding brushing against sweaty people was somewhat doable. There, at the end of the market, stacks upon stacks of small wire cages were crammed with chickens of different sizes. Feathers of every color were floating in the puddle. Red stains here and there. The air changed in an instant, thick with a dull stench.

The smell of death.

She approached slowly, like a cat, as if checking whether it was safe.

She ate meat. She knew where it came from. But she was a city girl, she hadn’t had first-hand experience of those parts of the food chain. Now it slammed her straight to her face.

“Which one do you want? One or more? I can pluck and clean it for you, but then it’s fifty percent more.” A chubby woman in charge meant business, with no delays.

Suddenly, she froze. She was staring at that one chicken, into its little eyes, so unaware of the world, of broken hearts, of cheaters, of lonely nights. She stood there, long enough that the chubby lady just shrugged her shoulders, gave up on further conversation and went on to do something useful.

A sharp squeak broke the silence. As if she woke from a bad dream, she looked around in panic. She felt the cold sweat sliding down her back and forehead. She turned and rushed away.

Just before the market exit, there was a stall with a huge pile of papayas. Yellow and green, they didn’t look appealing at all.

“Please give me the prettiest ripe one.” She whispered, barely audible, to a skinny old man in a perfectly white tank top, so contrastingly spotless to everything else around. The fruit was heavy. Probably heavier than that chicken, she thought.

She almost ran to the car, as if she stole something. She just needed to get away from there, from those smells and sounds. Inside the car, everything was quieter.

When she got home, on a wooden board, she cut the papaya in half. The cavity was crowded with wet black eyes staring from the heart of the fruit. They reminded her of the chicken eyes. She knew they would not survive the day, and to shrug off that image, she quickly scooped the seeds out and sliced one half lengthwise into strips.

There was a jar candle on the table. After that poignant market smell, she felt the urge to inhale something purer, something more refined. The scent of fig, tobacco, and sandalwood wafted across the room. She breathed it in deeply. Through the glass, the small flame cast soft light over the table. On a turquoise plate the amber flesh looked bright and cheerful.

“Fuck papaya,” she said and bit deep into one slice.

She still felt sorry for the chickens.