The Last Papaya

Maria sat alone at the tiki bar, sweating **palm** against the mahogany as she watched the sun bleed into the Pacific. Her **iphone** had buzzed twenty minutes ago with Richard's text: *We need to talk.* The same four words that had ended her first marriage, now threatening to dismantle the second one from three thousand miles away.

She signaled the bartender for another rum runner, then changed her mind and ordered the papaya salad instead. Something about the way the fruit's orange flesh glistened in the twilight reminded her of Richard's studio apartment in Bushwick—that summer they'd spent making love between shifts at the gallery, eating papaya they couldn't afford and pretending they weren't falling for each other. That was before the promotion, before the condo, before everything that currently sat on a lawyer's desk in Manhattan.

The resort pool glowed turquoise below her. She'd gone **swimming** earlier that day, swimming laps until her arms burned, trying to exhaust the anxiety that had been her constant companion since Richard's business trip to Chicago. Now, as the papaya's sweet-tart flavor hit her tongue, she let herself remember the other woman's name she'd seen on his phone three mornings ago. Jessica. From accounting.

"That's **bull**," she whispered to the empty stool beside her. Richard swearing nothing happened. Richard saying Jessica was just helping him with the merger. Richard telling her she was being paranoid—the same gaslight routine her ex had perfected, the one she'd sworn she'd never fall for again.

Her iphone lit up again. *Are you there? We should discuss this like adults.*

Maria speared a final piece of papaya. The sweetness was gone, leaving only the aftertaste. She typed back four words: *I'm done discussing.* Then she blocked his number, ordered one more drink, and finally breathed. The papaya had cost eighteen dollars. Freedom, she realized, would cost far more—but it was worth every cent.