The Papaya Promise

Maya swallowed her vitamin D supplement with the last of the lukewarm coffee, watching her reflection in the darkened hotel room mirror. Forty-two years old and she was still pretending that business trips were glamorous adventures instead of what they really were: lonely stretches of time in anonymous cities with cable TV she'd never watch and mini-bar prices that made her wince.

She'd come to Santo Domingo to close a deal that had been dead on arrival for months. Her boss had insisted she fly out anyway—relationships, he'd said, were built on face time. What he meant, Maya suspected, was that he needed someone else to fail spectacularly so he could explain to the board why their Latin American expansion was stalling.

Down by the pool, she found a chaise lounge tucked in the corner, away from the families shouting over splashing children and the honeymooners practically fused together at the shallow end. Maya ordered a papaya smoothie from the passing waiter, something healthy and virtuous to offset the gnawing anxiety in her stomach.

That's when she saw him swimming—powerful, precise strokes cutting through the turquoise water like he was escaping something. He emerged at the edge closest to her, slicking back wet hair that had started silvering at the temples. Older than her, she noted immediately. Older and married, if the tan line on his ring finger was any indication.

"The water's warmer than it looks," he said, climbing out with the easy confidence of men who never question their right to take up space.

"I'm not really dressed for it," Maya said, gesturing to her linen suit, which suddenly felt ridiculous in the tropical heat.

He laughed, a dry sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Neither am I. But I've found that's rarely stopped me from doing what I want."

They talked for two hours—about the conference they were both attending, about the absurdity of corporate strategies, about the papaya he'd discovered on a trip to Thailand that had changed his entire understanding of fruit. His name was Thomas. He sold enterprise software to hospitals. He was unhappily married, though he didn't say so in so many words.

"What would you do," Maya asked as the sun began to dip behind the palm trees, "if you could do anything?"

Thomas considered this, watching a couple argue near the diving board. "I'd buy a sailboat. I'd sail until the cable ran out on my phone, until I couldn't remember what quarterly projections were supposed to mean."

Maya nodded. She'd have said something similar ten years ago. But now she found herself thinking about the vitamin she'd taken that morning, how she'd started caring about calcium and magnesium and all the ways bodies began to betray women in their forties. She thought about her apartment back in Chicago, empty and pristine, waiting for her to return with another success that felt increasingly hollow.

"I think," she said slowly, "I'd start by admitting I'm unhappy. Then I'd figure out the rest."

Thomas watched her with something like recognition. "The papaya smoothies aren't going to fix that, are they?"

"No," Maya said. "But at least they're delicious."

They never touched, but as they walked back toward the hotel lobby, Maya found herself already wondering how long she'd remember Thomas's name, and whether she'd ever find the courage he'd been pretending to have all afternoon.