The Last Supper in Paradise

Maya sat on the balcony, her palm resting against the cool glass of the sliding door. The ocean beyond was a bruised purple, water stretching toward a horizon she couldn't see anymore. Behind her, Richard was arranging pills on the bedside table—vitamin D, omega-3, some bullshit supplement he'd read about on a podcast for fertility. For sperm health. For hope.

"The sunset's going to be incredible," he said, not looking at her. "Almost orange already."

"Mmm."

She'd stopped looking at sunsets six months ago, right after the third miscarriage. What was the point of beauty that just reminded you of what you couldn't hold onto?

A cat appeared then—a scrawny, tailless thing that hopped onto their balcony railing with an audacity that made Maya sit up straighter. It stared at her through golden eyes, and something about its ragged existence felt more real than anything in this climate-controlled resort, this last-ditch attempt to save a marriage that had been hollowed out from the inside.

Richard came to the door, saw the cat, sighed. "Probably carries diseases."

"Probably hungry."

"Maya, we talked about this. We're here to focus on us. To relax."

"Relax." She laughed, and it sounded like stones rattling in a tin can. "You mean we're here so I can be relaxed enough to finally carry a pregnancy to term, right? Is that what the vitamins are for? Me? Or is it still my fault that your swimmers can't find their way to shore?"

The cat licked its paw, utterly indifferent to their unraveling.

"That's not fair."

"You know what's not fair? That we spent twenty thousand dollars on this trip to 'save our marriage' while you were secretly seeing a reproductive specialist behind my back, testing YOUR fertility, but couldn't be bothered to tell me. I found the receipt, Richard. In your wallet yesterday."

The silence between them swelled, heavy and suffocating as deep water. The sun dipped below the horizon, painting everything in violent oranges and reds, a beautiful ending to another day.

The cat finished grooming, looked at Maya once more with those knowing eyes, and disappeared into the darkness.

"I was scared," he said finally, his voice cracking. "Of what you'd think of me."

"I think," Maya said, turning back to the ocean, "that I'm done being the only one who bleeds for this marriage."

Behind her, in the glass of the door, she saw her own reflection—a woman she barely recognized, palm still pressed against the surface like she was waiting for someone to let her in.