Evidence in the Bisque

The papaya hair slid between Margot's fingers like silk from a stranger's pillow. She'd found it caught in Marcus's blazer lapel—the navy one he only wore to "important client lunches." Hair the color of sunset, nothing like her own iron-colored strands that had started surrendering to silver at thirty-two.

They were at the Harrisons' annual dinner party. The kind of event where everyone's teeth looked too white and laughter too practiced. Marcus was across the room, swirling merlot with his left hand—the one he'd started wearing his watch on again, a habit he'd dropped somewhere around year seven of their marriage.

"You're not eating, dear." Eleanor Harrison pressed a serving spoon toward her. "The spinach gratin is to die for. Marcus said you loved spinach."

Marcus had told many people many things about her. Marcus told people she loved tennis. Marcus told people she was considering graduate school. Marcus told people they were trying to conceive—a particularly cruel fabrication, given he'd stopped initiating intimacy somewhere around the time he started coming home smelling of tropical fruit.

"Actually, I've gone off spinach lately," Margot said. "But thank you."

The papaya hair burned in her pocket like a accusation. Three weeks ago, she'd found papaya seeds in his dryer. Two weeks ago, a papaya-scented receipt for two at a place downtown where they didn't take reservations. Last week, he'd started using a new shampoo—something with coconut and papaya, claiming his old brand had been discontinued.

She watched him laughing at something Harrison said. His hair was perfect. His teeth were perfect. A tiny fleck of spinach was caught between his two front teeth, and nobody was telling him.

"Earth to Margot."

She blinked. Kate, one of the junior associates from Marcus's firm, stood beside her, holding a glass of white wine. Her hair was the color of papaya.

"You okay?" Kate asked. "You've been staring at Marcus for five minutes."

Margot looked at the woman—this young, vibrant woman with sunset hair and laugh lines that only appeared when she meant it. This woman who probably didn't know about the wife. Or maybe she did. Maybe that was the punchline.

"Just admiring the spinach in his teeth," Margot said. "He's going to be furious when he sees the photos."

Kate laughed. A real laugh. "He would be." She hesitated. "Look, about the project—"

"The project?"

"The laundromat renovation? He told us you were consulting."

The room tilted. No laundromat. No consulting. Just a convenient explanation for papaya receipts and extra hours.

"He has quite an imagination," Margot said softly. Then, louder: "Kate, can I get you more wine?"

As they walked to the bar, Margot's hand brushed her pocket. The papaya hair was still there, and suddenly it didn't feel like evidence anymore. It felt like permission.

"You know," she said, "I used to hate papaya. But I think I'm coming around."