After aimlessly scrolling through her watchlist and trailers, where nothing left an impression strong enough to justify wasting hours on them, she turned off the TV. The room grew darker. There was nothing new online, not even the funny videos were 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 until dawn. Should she just go to bed? But then she’d wake up too early… Or 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, except about walking. But then she remembered she lived on an island and probably wouldn’t get very far. Besides, who would feed the cat? She was still too young to manage on her own. So forever walking wasn’t an option either.

She gave up on making plans and flopped onto the bed as she was. No change to pajamas, 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 fulfill 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 if a hug was sufficient to compensate for the freedom of having the whole bed just for herself. She fell asleep without even a surreal solution for the emptiness she felt.

In the morning, she made coffee and thought about how to spend her Sunday. She had a list of pending things she could finally do, including some creative ones, but she couldn’t find the will to turn on her computer. Some of those tasks didn’t even require inspiration; they were the kind she could do almost automatically after years of professional practice. Her paycheck was due in a few days; maybe she could buy something. Her “save for later” list was always long, but nothing seemed necessary, nor could she see anything capable of making her happier. At least her common sense and practicality still worked there.

She wasn’t hungry, but it had been more than twenty hours since her last meal. Even if she hadn’t spent much energy, 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 realized cooking for one wasn’t a joy. She took out a bag of pears from the fridge. 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 some — mostly to add something healthy to her diet, and also because they looked appealing.

The knife revealed the content. Beneath the golden skin, the pear was bruised, and already browned and mushy in the center. Only a few bites remained on each after cutting off the bad parts. She hadn’t noticed this until a few years ago — fruit and vegetables starting to rot from the inside. She probably hadn’t paid attention before, but she was sure it had to do with tropical humidity and the generally poor quality of commercial produce.

She cut all the pears from the bag just to decently fill up the plate, but 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 nice.

Anyone would have thought it was a perfect meal. But they wouldn’t know the pear was slightly rotten, that the walnuts were slightly rancid, and that the cereal was full of junk ingredients. She knew better. 

Sitting alone at the table, she slowly took bite after bite. Pears and cinnamon don’t go that well together. Apples pair better with most things. That’s probably why they’re more popular. 

She looked around. Her apartment looked nice and stylish. Beautiful things, all full of carefully chosen details. She knew it was all a reflection of her. Every teacup, every vase, the paintings on the walls, 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 for it to be that way — everything well thought out, nicely arranged and put together. Eclectic and colorful, yet harmonious. Her friends loved coming over and always complimented the atmosphere. 

The doors that didn’t close properly, the moldy 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 faucet half-clogged, so the water stream was always uneven and crooked — nobody saw those. Just like the things on her plate: beautiful on the outside, just a bit spoiled inside. Edible, just not perfect.



She wondered if she was the same — like that pear, like this apartment. Would anyone ever notice that the window was broken and rain was coming in? Lift the fallen curtain? Wonder if she’d stopped buying cinnamon? 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 made a list of all the routine things she had to do today, like almost every other weekend: vacuum, mop, do laundry, water the plants, clean the cat’s litter box, take out the trash, prepare her son’s school uniform, do a clay face mask. The same chores every single time, but crossing off each item at least gave her the illusion of having done something to call it a day. 

She opened the terrace door wide. The warm air smelled faintly of salt and dust. It was already late afternoon. The golden sky signaled the sun would set soon. Tomorrow would be Monday. Maybe by next weekend, something would change.