The Papaya Sunset

Mara sat at the edge of the infinity pool, her oversized straw hat casting a shadow over her face. She'd come to this Mexican resort alone—something she never thought she'd do at forty-two. The divorce was final now. David had moved on with someone younger, someone who didn't ask why he never put down his iPhone during dinner.

She took a bite of the papaya she'd ordered from room service. Sweet, slightly musky, with seeds that looked like tiny black pearls. David had hated papaya. Called it 'tropical vomit.' She'd never ordered it when they were together.

A couple laughed at the other end of the pool. He was taking her picture—posed, perfect, performative. Mara remembered how David used to make her redo smiles until they looked 'natural.' Her iPhone buzzed in her bag. Probably her mother asking if she was 'doing better.' She ignored it.

She reached into her bag and pulled out the vitamin D supplements her doctor had prescribed. 'You're deficient,' he'd said. 'Probably stress.' She swallowed two dry, thinking about how many vitamins she'd taken over the years trying to fix herself—to have more energy, better skin, a better mood. Always something to optimize.

The sun began to set, painting the sky in bruises of purple and pink. A waiter appeared beside her. 'Señora? Another drink?'

She looked at the empty glass, then at the ring of sunscreen on the table where David had sat—five years ago, on their last attempt at reconnection. That trip had been the beginning of the end.

'No,' she said. 'No más.' She stood up, hat in hand, and walked toward the ocean. The papaya was sweet on her tongue. The vitamins were working their way through her system. Her iPhone could wait. For the first time in two decades, Mara didn't need anyone's permission to do exactly what she wanted.

She waded into the waves, fully dressed, letting the salt water ruin her sundress. The Pacific was cold and shocking and alive. She laughed out loud, startling a pelican. It wasn't happiness exactly. It was something else—something jagged and real and finally, completely hers.