The Last Breakfast

Elena stood at the kitchen counter of the Airbnb they'd rented for what was supposed to be their anniversary trip. The papaya she'd sliced that morning sat untouched on the plate, its flesh weeping into the ceramic. Richard hadn't emerged from the bedroom yet.

She looked down at her own hand—her palm still bore the faint tan line from her wedding ring, which she'd removed two nights ago after discovering his texts. The spinach salad she'd planned for dinner was wilting in the fridge, much like her optimism about their fifteen-year marriage.

"Are we doing this?" Richard asked from the doorway. His hair was disheveled, and he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"Doing what?" Elena replied, her voice hollow. "Pretending everything's fine while you figure out if she's worth it?"

"It's complicated."

"It's really not." She gestured toward the sliding glass door, where a stray dog—a golden retriever mix they'd been feeding—had appeared again, tail wagging hopefully. "Even the dog outside has better judgment than I do. She keeps coming back to people who clearly don't want her."

The morning light filtering through the palm fronds outside turned everything a sickly orange color. Richard's phone buzzed on the counter. They both watched it, holding their breath.

"That's her," Elena said quietly. "Isn't it."

"Elena, please—"

"Don't." She picked up the papaya and walked to the sink, scraping the fruit into the trash. "I already told you. Pack your things. I changed your flight to tonight."

"You can't just—"

"I already did." She finally looked at him, really looked at him, and was surprised to find she felt nothing at all. No anger, no heartbreak. Just exhaustion. "The papaya was overripe anyway. Like us."

He reached for his phone as it buzzed again. Elena opened the slider for the dog, who trotted in with a wagging tail. At least someone here was happy to see her. "Good girl," she whispered. "At least one of us knows when to leave."