The Last Papaya

Marlena stood at the edge of the resort pool, margarita in hand, watching the couple in the cabana. The woman was laughing, head thrown back, while the man fed her pieces of papaya from a wooden skewer. They looked like they'd invented happiness.

Three days ago, Marlena had been that woman. Before she'd discovered the emails. Before she'd learned that David—her David—had been a corporate spy for their competitor, selling the company's intellectual property along with their future. The lawyer had told her to expect the FBI any day.

She took a sip of her drink, too much tequila, not enough lime. The pool's blue surface shimmered like something alive, almost like the lake where they'd first gone swimming together, ten years ago. She'd never told him she couldn't really swim—she'd just doggy-paddled beside him, terrified of deep water, too proud to admit weakness. He'd never noticed.

The man in the cabana looked up. Their eyes met across the chlorine water. Something in his expression—knowledge, recognition—made her skin prickle. Had David sent someone? Was she being watched?

Marlena set down her glass and walked toward the beach, where the sun was dipping into the ocean, painting the waves impossible shades of orange. The sand cooled beneath her feet. She'd spent months bearing the weight of their mortgage, his absences, the vague explanations about business trips.

"Beautiful sunset," a voice said behind her.

She turned. It was the man from the cabana. Up close, he looked nothing like David. Older, weather-beaten, wearing the kind of smile that comes from surviving things.

"They say the best ones happen after the worst storms," he continued, gesturing toward the burning horizon. "My daughter—she loved papayas. Had one every morning of her life, until she didn't." He paused. "Some things you think you'll bear forever. Then you realize you don't have to."

Marlena looked at the ocean, really looked at it, for what felt like the first time. She'd learned to swim last month. Alone.

"I'm leaving him," she said, the words sounding like both question and answer.

The stranger nodded once, then walked back toward his wife.

Marlena waded into the surf, waves crashing around her legs, and kept walking until the ocean buoyed her up. She began to swim, properly this time, toward where the orange light met the water, toward whatever came next.