Ripe for the Taking

The papaya sat on the breakfast table, split open like a failed marriage. Elena stared at the black seeds glistening in the orange flesh, thinking how something so vibrant could look so dead inside. Across from her, Marcus texted furiously on his phone, his thumb movements sharp and decisive—unlike his marriage proposals.

"You going to eat that?" he asked without looking up.

"You first," she said.

They were at a couples' retreat in Costa Rica, though Marcus called it "strategic relationship maintenance." He'd bullshitted his way through the intake questionnaire, checking every box about "communication" and "intimacy" while simultaneously sexting his assistant back in Chicago. Elena knew. She'd always known.

Their first activity: padel lessons on the clay courts. The sport was like tennis but smaller, closer, more intimate—supposedly designed to foster teamwork. Instead, Elena spent forty minutes watching Marcus's back as he dominated the court, grunting with each serve, his competitiveness not just defeating her but obliterating any pretense of partnership. The instructor, a patient Costa Rican man with gentle eyes, kept telling them to move together, to find their rhythm. Marcus kept score.

Afterward, they sat by the infinity pool, the water blurring into the Pacific beyond. Elena ordered a drink. Marcus declined, citing an early morning meeting—via Zoom, naturally, from paradise.

"Why are we here, Marcus?" she asked, her voice hollow.

He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time in days. "Because we need to fix this."

"Fix what? The fact that you haven't been present since before our wedding? The fact that I caught you with her—what was her name again?—at the Christmas party? Or the fact that you think a weekend of structured activities can repair three years of neglect?"

"I'm trying, Elena."

"No," she said, standing up and walking to the pool's edge. "You're doing what you always do. Performing. Managing. Controlling the narrative. But you can't control this." She stripped off her cover-up and dove into the water.

When she surfaced, Marcus was gone. His phone sat on his chair, screen lighting up with notifications. Elena treaded water, floating in the space between action and consequence, and finally understood: sometimes the only way forward was to let yourself drown first.