Breeding in Captivity

Sarah cuts the papaya with surgical precision. The conference breakfast spreads before her—papaya, pineapple, mango—glistening in the tropical morning light. She's not hungry.

David's water glass leaves a ring on the table. He's looking at her with those eyes that undo her, the eyes she's been avoiding all weekend. The hotel's indoor pond shimmers behind them, orange goldfish darting through reeds.

"This is it," he says. "After tonight."

She nods. Outside, beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, Miami palms bend toward the ocean. The sky is gathering itself.

"The storm," she says, because she can't say what she means.

Lightning fractures the horizon. The water in their glasses trembles—or maybe that's just her imagination. They've been careful for eight months. Hotel rooms with connecting doors. Work conferences. His wife thinks he's in Chicago. Her husband thinks she's in Miami. Neither is wrong, exactly.

"The goldfish," David says suddenly, and she follows his gaze to the pond. "They breed in captivity. Did you know that? They don't know any different."

Sarah's hand freezes on her coffee cup. "Is that what we're doing? Breeding in captivity?"

"Surviving," he says.

The concierge announces that guests should remain indoors due to the approaching hurricane. Lightning flickers again, closer this time. The papaya on her plate looks suddenly obscene—its orange flesh exposed, seeds dark and vulnerable.

Sarah thinks about her husband at home. He loves papaya. He bought her goldfish for their fifth anniversary, before the promotion, before the conferences, before she learned to compartmentalize her life into neat, labeled containers.

"I can't," she says, and David's face collapses.

Then the power goes out.

In the emergency lighting, they sit across from each other. The goldfish continue their oblivious circuits. The water in the pond ripples. Her palm—her actual palm, pressed against the table—feels his absence before he's even gone.

"Your wife," she says. "What do you tell her?"

"The truth," he says. "Eventually."

"Eventually isn't a plan."

"No," he agrees. "It's a delay tactic."

She stands up. The thunder rattles the glass doors. The papaya sits abandoned on her plate.

"I'm going back to my room," she says. "My husband is flying in tomorrow. He wants to extend our trip."

"Your husband," David repeats. "He's coming here?"

"He thinks I deserve a vacation," Sarah says. "He's thoughtful like that."

She leaves him there with the papaya and the goldfish and the approaching storm. The hurricane will make landfall in three hours. She doesn't care.

In her room, she calls her husband.

"I'm so glad you're coming," she says into the phone, and means it.

The lightning illuminates everything.