The Last Breakfast

The papaya sat on the white ceramic plate, glistening with lime juice. Elena stared at it, remembering how Marcus always said it tasted like sex. That was three years ago, before the promotion, before the late nights, before the orange Nalgene bottle she'd found in his gym bag—something he'd never owned, something that smelled like perfume she didn't wear.

She'd spent three mornings swimming laps in the hotel pool at dawn, turning over the evidence in her mind. The pool's chlorine burned her eyes, giving her an excuse to cry. Each stroke was a question: when? who? why? The water held her secrets, swallowed her gasps, reflected the orange light of sunrise that Marcus never saw because he slept until noon.

'You're not eating,' he said now, his voice thick with sleep. He reached for her hand across the table. His fingers were warm. That was the worst part—he still touched her with the same tenderness.

'Not hungry.' Elena stood up, chair scraping against tile. 'I'm going swimming.'

'Elena, wait.' Something in his voice made her pause. He wasn't looking at her; he was looking at the papaya, at the lime juice pooling around its black seeds like tears. 'I know about the water bottle,' he said quietly. 'I was going to tell you.'

The air conditioning hummed. Somewhere beyond their balcony, the ocean rolled against the sand.

'She was just—' Marcus started, then stopped. 'It wasn't supposed to mean anything.'

Elena thought about the orange lipstick on his collar. The credit card charges for dinners she wasn't invited to. The papaya seeds that looked so much like the accusations she'd swallowed for months.

'Some things,' she said, 'even swimming can't wash away.'

She walked to the balcony and looked at the pool below. The water was calm, reflecting an orange sky that promised nothing but another day.