Fruit of Lost Summers

Marcus stood in the breakroom, the fluorescent lights humming above him like a dying insect. He sliced into the papaya he'd bought from that overpriced grocery store — the one his ex-wife had always insisted had 'superior produce.' The fruit's flesh was the color of sunset, impossibly vibrant against the corporate beige of the counter. It smelled like redemption and regret all at once.

"You joining the fun?" asked Sarah from accounting, pointing toward the conference room where the new VP was delivering another presentation about the company's growth strategy. Marcus called it the pyramid scheme — not because it was illegal, but because the only people who profited were at the very top, and everyone beneath them was just trying not to suffocate under the weight of someone else's ambition.

"In a minute," Marcus said, though they both knew he wouldn't go. These meetings always ended the same way: with buzzwords and targets and Marcus feeling like he was slowly disappearing, one PowerPoint slide at a time.

His phone buzzed. A notification from his father: 'Game starts at 7. Don't be late.' The old man still watched every baseball game like religion, even though his knees had given out years ago and the only team he coached now was his nursing home's wheelchair softball squad. Marcus had stopped going to games after the divorce — too many memories of sitting in the stands with Elena, too many empty seats beside him now.

He took a bite of the papaya. It was perfect, which made it worse. Elena had left him six months ago for a man who grew exotic fruit in Costa Rica. 'He's alive, Marcus,' she'd said, as if Marcus's crime was being merely adequate. 'He's actually living.'

The papaya seeds scattered across his plate like tiny black pearls.

Marcus stared at them and realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd done something that scared him. The pyramid of his life — education, career, marriage, mortgage — had been built according to specifications he'd never questioned. Now he was thirty-five, eating tropical fruit in a breakroom, wondering if it was too late to learn how to swing for the fences.

He dumped the rest of the papaya into the trash. Then he packed his bag, shut down his computer, and walked out of the building. His father would be waiting. And somewhere in Costa Rica, Elena was probably eating fruit that tasted like possibility. Marcus figured it was time he found out what that tasted like too.