Salt in the Wound

The papaya arrived at the resort restaurant already quartered, glistening with lime. Elena had ordered it because David used to peel them for her on Sunday mornings, his knife sliding through the flesh like he was performing surgery on something that didn't need fixing. She pierced a piece with her fork. It was too ripe, bordering on fermentation — much like the state of her marriage when she'd finally packed her bags.

Three months later, she was back at this same resort, alone. The air conditioning hummed its inadequate protest against the Caribbean heat. Outside, palm fronds rattled in the wind like dry applause for her performance of independence.

"Is everything alright with your breakfast, ma'am?"

Elena looked up. The waiter was young, maybe twenty-three, with the kind of unlined face that made her want to apologize for everything she'd survived. She'd caught him watching her earlier from the pool deck, where she'd spent two hours swimming laps yesterday, cutting through the water until her muscles burned, until she couldn't feel anything else.

"It's perfect," she said, and he moved away, sensing something he couldn't name.

Her phone vibrated on the table. David's name. She stared at it, caught between wanting to answer and wanting to throw it into the ocean. The first time they'd come here, he'd held her palm against his and traced her lifeline with his thumb, telling her they had forever. That was before she knew he measured time in opportunities rather than years, before she understood that some people collect lovers the way others collect stamps — something to display, something to trade, something ultimately disposable.

She pushed the papaya away. Her hand trembled slightly — she noticed this about herself now, these little betrayals of the body. The grief wasn't a drowning anymore. It was swimming in something murkier, where she couldn't touch bottom and couldn't see surface, just the endless middle where memory and wish overlapped and dissolved.

"Excuse me," she said to no one, rising from the table. Her phone continued its small dance on the linen.

She walked to the beach, where the ocean waited with its ancient indifference. Later, she would learn that David had called to say he was getting married. Later, she would realize that papaya tastes like abandonment. Later, she would understand that some endings are not doors closing but walls appearing, and the only choice is whether to keep pounding your fists against them or simply sit down in the sand and watch the waves come in, over and over, doing the only thing that matters — continuing.