The Smoothie at Sunrise

I watch him from the doorway as morning light filters through the kitchen, catching the smooth motion of his hands as he packs our daughter's lunch. He's meticulous now, almost reverent, as if each container holds something sacred.

"Spinach again?" I ask, leaning against the frame. "Since when do you care about antioxidants?"

He doesn't turn. "Since my doctor said my cholesterol was climbing. You want me to have a stroke at forty-five?"

The laugh that escapes me is dry, humorless. "That would be inconvenient."

He adds papaya cubes to the container — bright orange cubes, perfectly portioned. I hate papaya. He's never bought it in twelve years of marriage. But there it is, expensive and tropical and wrong.

"Since when do you eat papaya?"

"It's good for digestion," he says, still not facing me. "She recommended it."

She. There's always a she these days. His new yoga instructor, his meditation guide, the nutritionist he sees twice a month. Women who've somehow slipped into his life while I was busy being the mother of his children, the manager of his household, the person who knows he secretly hates spinach but eats it because that's what decent fathers do.

His iPhone lights up on the counter. The name flashes: BEAR.

"Who's Bear?" The question comes out sharper than intended.

"A client," he says too quickly. "Blockchain startup."

I've stopped believing in coincidences. Three months ago, he started meditation. Two months ago, the cholesterol scare. Six weeks ago, he began locking his phone. Now papaya and clients named Bear.

"Your meditation teacher's name is Elena, right?"

"Yes." He finally turns, and I see it — the flicker of something like fear, or maybe guilt. "Why?"

"Just curious." I move to the counter, pick up a cube of papaya, let the sweet, musky scent fill my nose. "Elena recommend this too?"

"You're being paranoid." But he's already reaching for his iPhone, sliding it into his pocket like it holds evidence of a crime.

"Am I?" I pop the papaya into my mouth. "Or am I finally paying attention?"

The spinach sits heavy in my stomach, nutritious and wrong. The bear in the room is finally named, even if I don't say her name aloud. And the iPhone in his pocket buzzes again, vibrating against his hip like a second heartbeat, one that's not mine.