The Last Supper at Coral Springs

The pool at the Coral Springs Marriott reflected the ugly fluorescence of the banquet hall, rippling with the clumsy dives of drunken sales executives from regional. Mara sat at table four, picking at a wilting spinach salad that tasted like regret and cheap dressing.

Her husband Marcus was three tables away, laughing too loudly at the CEO's joke about third-quarter projections. The papaya centerpiece on their table had sat untouched since the welcome reception three hours ago, its orange flesh growing increasingly sullen in the conditioned air.

"You're not eating," said Brent from Accounting, sliding into the empty chair beside her. His breath smelled of gin and desperation. "Big day tomorrow. The merger announcement."

"Not hungry," Mara said, pushing her plate away. She'd discovered the divorce papers in Marcus's suitcase yesterday afternoon, tucked between his dress shoes and a laminated copy of the company's mission statement. He hadn't even tried to hide them well.

Brent followed her gaze toward Marcus, who was now gesturing with a shrimp cocktail, animated and alive in a way he hadn't been at home in months. "You know," Brent lowered his voice, "there's a betting pool going around. About which departments get axed after the merger."

The papaya seemed to mock her with its perfect, pathetic wholesomeness. She thought about the years of canceled vacations, the IVF treatments they'd stopped after the third failure, the way Marcus had started sleeping in the guest room "because of his snoring."

Mara stood up, chair scraping against the carpet. The room spun slightly—the wine, the heat, the absolute absurdity of it all. She picked up the papaya, its weight heavier than it had any right to be.

"Where are you going?" Brent asked.

She walked toward the pool, the papaya cradled in her arms like something precious. Behind her, the banquet continued—forks against plates, forced laughter, the hollow performance of corporate success. She could feel their eyes on her back.

At the pool's edge, she considered hurling the fruit into the chlorinated water. Instead, she sat on a lounge chair and tore into the papaya with her bare hands, juice running down her wrists, sticky and sweet and wildly alive.

Marcus found her there twenty minutes later, his silk tie loosened, uncertainty written across his face. "Mara? Everything okay?"

She looked at him with papaya-stained fingers and something like peace settling in her chest. "The pool's closed," she said. "But I think I'm finally ready to swim."