After aimlessly scrolling through her watchlist and trailers, she turned off the TV. The room grew darker. There was nothing new online, and even the funny videos were not that funny. The stack of books on the table all told stories she couldn’t relate to at the moment. Tomorrow was Sunday, a day off — she could do whatever and stay awake as long as she wanted. Maybe go for a walk; it was a lovely night, and at this late hour there would be no one outside. And what if she just kept walking, endlessly, forever? Like Forrest Gump. Maybe everything would disappear. Maybe she would stop thinking altogether. But then she remembered she lived on an island and probably wouldn’t get very far. Besides, who would feed the cat? So that wasn’t an option either.

She gave up on making plans and flopped onto the bed as she was. No changing into pyjamas, no nighttime skincare routine. It wasn’t cold, but there were mosquitoes, so she threw a sheet over. She tried to imagine some extraordinary scenario — being kidnapped by aliens, or suddenly meeting her great, unfulfilled love from a past life so they could fulfil their karmic debt in this one. No images came. She hugged the second pillow and tried to remember what it was like to sleep beside someone. Maybe she would be bothered by his breathing, or feel too hot and restrained. She pondered whether a hug was sufficient to compensate for the freedom of having the whole bed to herself. She fell asleep without a satisfying fantasy solution.

In the morning, over coffee, she thought about how to spend her Sunday. Something different would be nice. She had a list of creative things she could finally do, but she couldn’t find the will to turn on her computer. Her salary was due in a few days — maybe she could buy something. The “Save for later” section of her cart was always long, but nothing seemed necessary, nor could she see anything capable of making her happier.

The rumbling of her stomach decided for her.

She wasn’t hungry, but the body still needed fuel, and she didn’t want to feel faint. The fridge looked full, but there was nothing she craved to eat, and least of all did she want to cook. Since she’d started mostly eating alone, she’d realised cooking for one wasn’t a joy. After staring a bit too long at the fridge contents, she finally took out a bag of pears. Fruit was always a good choice, she knew, but she rarely followed through. The other day at the market, she’d really wanted to get them, mostly to add something healthy to the trolley, but also because they looked pretty.

The knife revealed what was inside. Beneath the golden skin, the pear was bruised, already browned and mushy in the centre. Only a few bites remained of each after cutting off the bad parts. She had only recently noticed how often fruit and vegetables seemed to rot from the inside.

She cut up all the pears in the bag just to fill the plate properly. It looked too empty and boring, so she added some walnuts and sliced almonds. Still not enough. Consciously ruining the healthiness of the snack, she threw in a handful of cinnamon cereal, for some crunch and that comforting, almost festive aroma. It looked nicer.

It looked like a perfect little meal. But they wouldn’t know the pears were slightly rotten, that the walnuts were slightly rancid, and that the cereal was full of junk ingredients.

Sitting alone at the table, she slowly took bite after bite.

”Pears and cinnamon don’t go that well together. Apples pair better with anything.”

She looked around. Her apartment looked cosy and stylish. Every detail was carefully chosen. Even the fridge magnets from various places she’d visited weren’t the boring touristy ones. She had invested a lot of time and effort in making it that way — everything well thought out, nicely arranged and put together. Her friends loved coming. She welcomed the compliments with a proud smile.

The doors that didn’t close properly, the mouldy cabinet wall under the sink, the termites gnawing at the doorframes and leaving perfect little piles of tiny droppings as proof of their work, the tap half-clogged, so the stream of water was always uneven and crooked — nobody saw those.

She wondered if she was the same — like that pear, like that apartment. Was her smile too good of a smokescreen? Would anyone else ever notice that the window was broken and rain was coming in? Lift the fallen curtain? Wonder if she’d stopped buying pears?

She wasn’t sad about it anymore; that phase had passed long ago. What remained was a long, flat line with question marks here and there.

She finished the meal, and made a list of all the things she had to do. Vacuum, mop, do laundry, water the plants, clean the cat’s litter box, take out the rubbish, prepare her son’s school uniform, do a clay face mask. The same chores as every other weekend. There was no need to make it a list, but crossing off each item at least gave her the illusion of having accomplished enough to call it a day.

She opened the terrace door wide. The warm air smelled faintly of salt and dust. A part of the day was gone.

Tomorrow would be Monday. Maybe by next weekend, something would change.