Hungry Ghosts at Sunset

The resort's infinity pool blurred into the Pacific, that impossible orange of tropical sunsets bleeding into the water. Elena sat at the swim-up bar, nursing a drink she'd stopped tasting an hour ago. The destination wedding had been her sister's idea—because nothing says "forever" like flying your nearest and dearest to Belize for three days of compulsory celebration.

"You look like a zombie," said the man beside her, gesturing for another round. He was attractive in that generic way—expensive watch, careful stubble, the kind of man who talked about cryptocurrency at parties. "You okay?"

Elena considered the question. She was thirty-four, recently promoted, successfully mediocre at her corporate law firm, and nursing a profound sense that she'd missed some crucial instruction manual for adulthood. "I'm fine," she said, because that's what women did.

On the plate before her sat fruit carved into impossible shapes—a papaya engineered to resemble a flower, its flesh sweet and cloying. She thought about how her mother used to cut papayas in their cramped kitchen in Queens, the juice staining everything, how she'd accused Elena of being ungrateful when she'd refused to eat it as a teenager. Her mother had been dead six years now, and Elena still couldn't eat papaya without feeling she was apologizing for something.

"My ex is here," the man continued, as if they were old friends. "With her new husband. They built a life together. I just... I keep thinking about how close I came to that alternative timeline. You know?"

Elena did know. She thought about the pyramid of choices that had led her to this moment—each decision narrowing possibility until here she was, watching her sister marry a man who'd once ghosted Elena after three dates. The cosmic joke was that Elena had been the one to introduce them.

"The thing about pyramids," she found herself saying, her voice sounding distant, "is that they're just glorified graves for people who thought they'd live forever."

The man laughed, startled. "That's dark."

"It's not dark," she said, finally tasting her drink. "It's just architecture."

The sun dropped below the horizon, that fierce orange surrendering to violet. The zombie beside her ordered another drink. Elena picked up a piece of papaya and ate it, letting the sweetness fill her mouth. She was alive. She was lonely. She was exactly where she was supposed to be. Some days, that was enough.