The Last Papaya
The lightning split the sky over CancĂşn as Elena reached for the last slice of papaya on the breakfast buffet. Her hand trembled, and she pulled back. Let Carlos have it. Let him have everything.
"You're not eating," he said, already chewing, the juice staining his lips like a wound that wouldn't heal.
"Not hungry."
"You should take your vitamin. At least."
The vitamin D bottle sat between them on the white linen tablecloth, a plastic rectangle of obligation. She'd been taking them daily since the miscarriage—doctor's orders, though the hollowness in her bones had nothing to do with sunlight.
"Padel at ten?" Carlos asked, already standing, already moving away.
The padel court was enclosed in glass, a greenhouse of sweat and forced enthusiasm. Elena watched Carlos across the net, his shirt clinging to his back, his swing precise and violent. She remembered when they'd met, five years ago at a corporate tournament. How he'd looked at her then—really looked at her, like she was the only thing in focus.
Now she was background.
Another lightning flash illuminated the court's glass walls. The sky had gone bruised purple, rain hammering down.
"We should go back," she called over the thunder.
"One more game," he said, returning serve, bending to retrieve a ball that had skipped past him. "I'm finally winning."
Elena lowered her racket. The glass walls were steaming up, blurring the world outside. She couldn't see the ocean anymore. Couldn't see anything except Carlos, alone on his side of the net, playing a game she'd stopped wanting to play.
"You can win, Carlos," she said softly. "I'm done."
He didn't hear her. The rain screamed against the glass, and somewhere beyond it, a papaya ripened on a branch, and lightning struck the same place twice.