Papaya at Sunset

Marisa stood on the terrace of the Coral Beach Club, watching Ricardo slice through the air with his padel racquet. His back was to her—sweat glistening on his neck, the way it used to when they'd make love in that sticky Havana apartment before money and ambition changed everything.

She held the papaya he'd bought her that morning, its skin already softening in the heat. "For breakfast," he'd said, kissing her cheek like it was a checkbox on his daily list. He hadn't remembered their anniversary. Not yesterday, not today. But Sofia from accounting had posted a photo on Instagram—Ricardo and her, glasses of wine, candlelight. *Happy anniversary to my favorite colleague,* the caption read. A date that matched exactly what Ricardo was supposed to be celebrating with his wife.

Marisa touched the brim of her father's Panama hat—she'd started wearing it after his funeral three months ago, as if his discipline might somehow replace the growing hollowness in her chest. The hat smelled like old tobacco and wishes, like the way things used to be before everyone started leaving.

Below, Ricardo laughed at something his opponent said. He looked younger than forty, happier than he'd been in years. Marisa remembered how he'd told her last week that he needed space to *find himself*—that classic line delivered over overpriced sushi while she mentally calculated how much of her life she'd sacrificed for his career.

The pool stretched beyond the padel court, its water impossibly blue, fake as this life they'd built together. She'd spent so many years treading water in this marriage, pretending she wasn't drowning.

Marisa took a bite of the papaya. It was overripe, fermenting slightly at the center—sweet and wrong, like everything else. She chewed slowly, watching her husband laugh, watching the sun dip toward the ocean where they'd spread their parents' ashes just last year. *Until death do us part,* the priest had said. Some deaths were louder than others.

She set the half-eaten fruit on the railing where the sea breeze would find it. Adjusted her father's hat. And walked toward the gate where her car waited, keys already burning in her pocket, while Ricardo continued his game, utterly unaware that the match he'd been playing for seventeen years had just ended in straight sets.