The Last Papaya

Arthur stood on the balcony of the Oahu resort, his Panama hat pulled low against the evening breeze. Below, the reception for Eleanor's retirement party churned with colleagues half their age, laughing with drinks in hand. She'd left him there fifteen minutes ago, claiming migraine, but Arthur knew better.

He cut into the papaya on the plate before him, the fruit's flesh the color of a bruised sunset. Forty years ago, on their honeymoon in this same spot, Eleanor had laughed at his ignorance of tropical fruit, taught him how to scoop the seeds with a spoon, how to eat it like dessert. Now she moved through the party below, touching arms, offering that radiant smile that had convinced him to quit his job and follow her to Washington, to London, to Tokyo.

Their marriage had become a series of accommodations, each one smaller than the last, until they were strangers who happened to share a bed. Like this papaya—sweet on the surface, increasingly hollow beneath.

Lightning forked across the distant horizon, illuminating the gathering storm clouds. Arthur watched Eleanor pause near the railing, her hand resting on another man's arm. A younger man. Someone from her department, she'd mentioned once, whose name Arthur couldn't bother to remember.

The truth struck him with the same sudden clarity as the lighting that followed—the sharp crack that made the guests below gasp and point. Eleanor turned toward the balcony, perhaps sensing his gaze. Arthur raised his hat in a small salute, saw her hesitation, the slight stiffening of her shoulders before she turned back to her conversation.

He abandoned the papaya half-eaten. Some things, like first loves and last chances, were better left unfinished. Arthur adjusted his hat against the first drops of rain and went to pack his bags alone.