The Bull in the Room

The water in the pool was mirror-still at 6 AM, the way Elena liked it. Forty-seven years old, senior VP of something that didn't matter anymore, and she'd perfected the art of being the first one in. First in the pool, first to the office, first to arrive, first to leave—always leaving.

Her ex-husband's straw hat still sat on the porch railing at home. Marcus had been gone eight months, and she still hadn't touched it. Some days she wanted to burn it. Other days, she wanted to put it on and pretend none of this had happened.

"You're full of shit, David," someone said from the pool deck.

Elena's eyes snapped open. A woman in her twenties stood there, voice trembling. "You said you'd leave her. You said—"

"I know, I know," a man's voice replied. "It's complicated."

"No it's not. You're just a coward."

Elena sank deeper into the water. A bull, she thought. The way men charged through other people's lives like they were made of papier-mâché, leaving wreckage behind them, then called it "complicated."

The woman stormed off. The man—David, apparently—sighed heavily and sat on the edge of the pool, feet in the water. He looked like her Marcus. Same jawline, same expensive watch, same capacity for destruction wrapped in attractiveness.

"You can come up now," he said.

Elena realized she'd been holding her breath underwater. She surfaced, gasping. "I wasn't hiding."

"No?" He examined her with bloodshot eyes. "You're here every morning. I've seen you. First one in."

"And you're here every morning," she countered. "Second one in."

He laughed, surprised. "Touché. I'm David."

"Elena."

"That was my sister," he said, apropos of nothing. "She's had a rough year. Our dad died, left her this mess to clean up. She thought I should help more."

"Should you?"

"Probably." He trailed a hand through the water. "I keep meaning to. But I'm the baby, you know? Everyone expects me to be the irresponsible one. So I oblige."

Elena studied him. The palm trees fringing the pool cast long shadows in the dawn light. The air smelled of chlorine and impending heat.

"My husband left me," she heard herself say. "Eight months ago. For a twenty-six-year-old."

David winced. "That's rough."

"He said I'd become..." She searched for the word. "Predictable. Like a fruit that ripens on schedule, then rots. He wanted something tropical. Something unexpected."

"And what?"

"And I'm standing here, aren't I?" Her voice cracked. "I'm still ripening on schedule. Still here at 6 AM, same as always."

David was quiet for a long moment. Then: "My sister's husband left her too. Same story. She bought a papaya at the grocery store yesterday, stood in the kitchen crying over it because it was the first exotic thing she'd purchased in twenty years of marriage. Said if she couldn't be unpredictable for him, she'd be unpredictable for herself."

"Did she eat it?"

"No. It's sitting on the counter, going soft. She keeps saying she'll slice it open tomorrow."

Elena thought of the hat on her porch. How easy it would be to touch it, or to burn it, or to put it on. She'd been standing still for eight months, ripening on schedule.

"Your sister should eat the papaya," she said. "Before it rots."

"Yeah." David stood up. "She probably should. You too, Elena."

He walked away, leaving her alone in the pool again. The sun broke over the horizon, gold across the water. Elena dove under, opened her eyes, watched the light fracture into a thousand pieces, and for the first time in months, thought about what she might do next.