The Last Day of August
Maria stood at the edge of the **pool**, the water reflecting the bruised **orange** of sunset like a fresh wound. Her divorce papers were in her purse, signed and ready to be mailed. Forty years old and starting over—again.
The backyard was overgrown with **papaya** trees, Frank's pride and joy. He'd planted them when they moved in, when everything still felt possible. Now the fruit rotted on the ground, sweet and fermenting in the humidity.
She'd been a **zombie** for three years, walking through the marriage on autopilot. The fights had become routine, the silences familiar. Last week, when Frank called her "emotionally vacant" over takeout Thai, she hadn't even argued. He was right. She was empty.
"Taking a plunge?"
Startled, Maria turned. David from next door stood at the fence, holding a tumbler of whiskey. His wife had left him six months ago.
"Just thinking," she said.
"Frank's gone?"
"Signed the papers today."
David nodded, climbed over the fence with the grace of someone who'd stopped giving a damn about boundaries. "I've got something for the occasion." He produced a joint from his pocket.
They sat on the pool's edge, feet dangling in the warm water. Maria hadn't smoked since college, but as the smoke filled her lungs, something unclenched in her chest.
"You know what Frank called me?" David said. "He said I charged through life like a **bull** in a china shop. Breaking everything I touched."
Maria laughed, a rusty sound. "He told me I was dead inside."
"Maybe we're both right," David said. "Maybe that's why we ended up next to each other."
The **orange** light deepened to purple. A papaya fell from the tree with a soft thud. Maria realized she wasn't sad. She was just... hungry. For something real.
"Want to get dinner?" she asked. "Someplace that's not takeout."
David smiled. "Only if we leave the zombies behind."
She nodded, standing up. The water dripped from her legs, warm against her cooling skin. Tomorrow would be hard. Tonight, she just wanted to eat something fresh.