Sour Fruit

Carla peered over her sunglasses at the pool, watching Marcus's secretary laughing at something he said. The girl couldn't be twenty-five, all long limbs and careless confidence, bending over the edge of the water in a swimsuit that cost more than Carla's first car. Marcus had his back to Carla, but she recognized the set of his shoulders—the same careful posture he used during board meetings, during dinner parties, during their anniversary dinners that had started feeling like performance art.

"Another drink, ma'am?" The waiter appeared like clockwork. She ordered the same thing she'd been drinking for three hours: something orange and viscous with a paper umbrella that tasted like artificial sunset and regret.

Three weeks ago, Marcus had insisted on this "last-minute" trip to the resort. "We need to reconnect," he'd said, already scrolling through emails as he spoke. Now he was on the other side of the pool, playing padel with a group of men whose names he'd dropped at least twice during breakfast. The new girl watched from the sidelines, shading her eyes with manicured fingers, and Carla felt something sharp and unladylike in her chest.

They'd met at a padel match fifteen years ago. She'd been terrible at it, laughing every time she missed the ball, and he'd been instantly charmed by her lack of competitive instinct. Now he spent hours on the court with colleagues and clients and ambitious young women who understood that sports were just networking with sweat.

The girl walked over to Marcus at the edge of the padel court, handed him a water bottle, and his hand lingered on hers for maybe one second too long. Or maybe Carla was imagining it. Maybe she'd been imagining everything for months—the late nights, the sudden gym membership, the way he checked his phone during dinner.

She finished her orange drink and set the glass down on the travertine. The paper umbrella had wilted. Across the water, Marcus was laughing, head thrown back, transformed into someone younger, lighter, more himself than he'd been with her in years. The girl stood near enough that their shadows merged.

Carla signaled the waiter. "Bring me something actually strong this time." She thought about ordering an orange juice, fresh-squeezed and simple, but instead asked for whiskey. The girl looked up, caught Carla's eye for a fraction of a second, then quickly looked away. Guilt or pity. It didn't matter which.

"Coming right up, ma'am."

Carla closed her eyes against the sun. Somewhere beyond the pool, a padel ball hit the court with a sharp, satisfying crack. Another game, another match, another day in a life she'd built so carefully it had become impossible to inhabit.