Ripe and Rotting

The papaya sat on the white porcelain plate, cut open to reveal its bright orange flesh seeded with black pearls. Elena had ordered it from room service, though she wasn't hungry. It reminded her of their honeymoon in Costa Rica twelve years ago, when Richard had sworn he loved the way she looked in the morning light, unmade and raw. Now he was downstairs at the conference, schmoozing potential investors, while she sat on the balcony of room 417, staring at the hotel pool.

Below, the water glittered like crushed diamonds. A young couple — they couldn't be twenty-five — lounged on matching chaises, feeding each other pieces of fruit from a shared plate. Elena felt a sudden, sharp nausea. She remembered how she and Richard used to be like that, oblivious to the rot that would eventually grow inside them, invisible until it was too late.

She picked up her phone and opened the messages again. There it was, still: the notification she'd received yesterday, when Richard was in the shower. A single image from an unknown number. A woman's wrist, pale against dark sheets. And on that wrist, the silver cuff bracelet Elena had given Richard for their tenth anniversary.

The spinach salad from lunch yesterday came back to her suddenly — the boutique café where they'd met, the way he'd claimed it was a business lunch. The way she'd believed him, because believing was easier than the alternative.

Her phone buzzed. Richard: "Almost done. Want to meet at the pool for a drink before dinner?"

Elena looked at the papaya, now soft and brown at the edges. Everything ripened. Everything rotted. That was the job of living — to bear witness to the decay.

She typed: "I'm checking out early. Don't come up."

Then she stood, left the papaya untouched, and began packing her suitcase. For the first time in twelve years, she didn't know where she would sleep tonight, and the terror of it was eclipsed only by the thrill.