The Papaya Incident

Elena stood in the hotel bathroom, her reflection wearing that stupid fascinator hat she'd bought because her sister said it was chic. The hat drooped like a dying bird. In the mirror, she saw the spinach wedged between her front teeth—a tiny green flag of surrender from the morning's forced breakfast.

Her iPhone buzzed against the marble countertop. Again.

She knew who it was. The same person who'd been calling for three weeks, since she'd walked out of their apartment with nothing but a suitcase and a papaya she'd been planning to eat for lunch. The papaya had rotted on her kitchen counter in the new place. She should have taken the photo albums instead.

"Elena?" Her mother's voice from the hallway. "The photos start in five minutes."

"Coming."

She rinsed her mouth, flossed until her gums bled. The spinach was gone. The hat was adjusted. The phone continued its soft, relentless vibration against the stone—like a heartbeat she was trying to ignore.

Her sister's wedding reception. Her ex would be here. They'd both been invited before the collapse, before the papya incident, before everything.

She stepped out of the bathroom and walked toward the ballroom, phone still buzzing in her hand.

"You have spinach in your teeth," a voice said.

Elena looked up. It was him. Standing by the papaya display, because her sister had decided on a tropical theme and apparently papayas were now wedding decor.

She touched her teeth. Nothing there.

"I'm kidding," he said. "You look perfect."

The phone buzzed one more time. She looked down. Unknown number.

"Aren't you going to get that?" he asked.

"No," she said. "I don't think I will."

She placed the phone on the papaya table and walked into the reception. The hat felt lighter somehow. The papayas gleamed in the ambient light, orange and alien and absolutely ridiculous. Life went on. She'd buy another papaya tomorrow. Maybe this one she'd actually eat.