Chlorine and Tropical Fruit

She counted them every morning—vitamin D for the bones she swore were aging prematurely, omega-3 for a heart that felt perpetually bruised, B-complex for the energy she never actually felt. Six capsules, one swallow, followed by the papaya her husband had sliced with such careful precision three months ago when he still gave a damn about keeping their marriage from rotting.

Now the papaya sat in the bowl, blackening at the edges, while Markus stood at the edge of the pool, his cellphone pressed to his ear, his voice low and urgent. She knew that voice. She'd heard it three years ago when he was closing the deal that was supposed to buy them freedom. Now it bought him late nights and conference calls that required "discretion."

The water gleamed, an artificial blue that hurt her eyes. She'd hated this pool from the moment they signed the papers. A rectangle of chlorinated water in the backyard, another prop in the life they were supposed to have. The mortgage on this house was supposed to be temporary, a stepping stone to something real. Instead, they'd been treading water for seven years.

"I have to go in," he said, not looking at her. "Sarah needs the files."

Sarah. Always Sarah.

"It's Sunday, Markus."

"The client doesn't observe weekends."

She watched his reflection in the pool—distorted, rippling, half-submerged. How fitting.

"Your papaya's going bad," she said instead of what she really meant: I don't know who you are anymore. I don't know who I am. I don't know why I'm still taking these vitamins every morning as if they could fix what's actually wrong.

He glanced at his watch. "I'll grab something at the office."

The screen door slid shut. The house settled into silence.

She picked up the papaya, felt the soft spots where it had begun to collapse under its own weight. Like her. Like them. She threw it into the pool.

It bobbed there, orange and obscene against the blue, while she realized she'd forgotten to take her vitamins.