Papaya Season

Marcus sat alone at the resort restaurant, slicing into the papaya with surgical precision. The fruit was too ripe, its flesh giving way beneath his spoon like something surrendering.

"You're not eating," Elena said from across the table. She'd been his wife's friend for twelve years, through three promotions and the funeral. Now David was dead—a heart attack at forty-two—and Elena had invited Marcus to this Mexican resort because, she'd said, they both needed to escape.

"I'm not hungry," Marcus admitted.

They played padel that afternoon under a merciless sun. The enclosed court amplified the sound of ball against glass, each strike echoing like violence. Elena was competitive in a way David had never been, her grunts of effort raw and unselfconscious. Marcus found himself watching her—the sweat at her hairline, the way her thighs flexed when she lunged—and felt a gnawing guilt that was somehow worse than grief.

Later, he sat by the pool alone. A golden retriever paddled through the shallow end, its owner calling from the edge. The dog looked nothing like Buster, back home in Oakland—Buster who was probably pacing the hardwood floors, waiting for David to come home from a job that no longer existed.

That night, Elena knocked on his door with tequila. They sat on the balcony watching the moon reflect off the pool's surface.

"David hated this place," she said. "He spent our anniversary here working."

Marcus nodded.

"I should tell you something," Elena said, setting down her glass. "David was having an affair. For two years."

Marcus closed his eyes. The only surprise was that it hadn't been him.

"The dog," he said. "Who's taking care of Buster?"

"The neighbor," Elena said. "Why?"

"No reason," Marcus said. "No reason at all."

He finished his drink. Below them, the pool lights came on, turning the water an impossible blue. Somewhere, someone was playing padel, the rhythmic thwack punctuating the silence like a heartbeat.

"Stay," Elena said.

Marcus looked at his hands. Some things, he realized, were better left to ripen and fall on their own.