The Papaya Pyramid

The pyramid tattooed between my shoulder blades had been a mistake of tequila and twenty-two, a permanent reminder of a spring break in Cozumel that I couldn't quite remember. Now, at thirty-five, it seemed to mock me from every mirror in this overpriced resort where David and I had come to celebrate—or mourn—our tenth anniversary.

He was already at the pool when I came down from our room, his laptop open despite his promises about disconnecting. The papaya I'd selected from the breakfast buffet sat untouched on the table between us, its orange flesh revealing itself in sections, black seeds glistening like tiny eyes watching our mutual avoidance.

"The networking event," he said without looking up. "I have to prepare."

I nodded, though he couldn't see me. The same networking event that had kept him late every Tuesday for three years. The same one that smelled like vanilla and someone else's perfume.

The water beckoned—turquoise and mercifully cool. I'd been swimming competitively in college, back when my body felt like an instrument rather than an afterthought. Now I entered the pool slowly, letting the water reclaim me, baptizing myself in chlorinated forgetfulness.

When I emerged, David was gone. His laptop remained, but a napkin had been placed beside it. On it, he'd drawn a small pyramid—our inside joke from when we'd been young and broke, building pyramids of cans on our kitchen counter because we couldn't afford furniture.

I ate the papaya alone, letting the juice run down my chin, not caring about the mess. The seeds were bitter against my tongue, and I swallowed them anyway. Some things, I realized, you don't spit out—you let them become part of you, hard and indigestible as they are.