The Sweet Rot

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin mottled with yellow bruises like fading love bites. Maya watched it soften over three days, measuring time by fruit decay while David measured it by his padel league standings.

"You're not eating," David said, coming in from the court. His hair was wet with sweat, the gray at his temples more pronounced than she'd remembered. He smelled of competition and expensive sunscreen.

"Not hungry." She turned back to her laptop, the vitamin D supplement bottle standing like a sentinel beside her screen. Her doctor had prescribed them after the blood work—deficient, inadequate, lacking. The words had lingered.

They were in Tulum for the week—a gift from David's company for his tenth anniversary. The package had included private padel lessons and a couples' massage that kept getting rescheduled. Now it was Friday, and Maya had spent most of the trip swimming alone in the infinity pool at dusk, watching the Caribbean darken while David strategized with his doubles partner over margaritas.

"The resort offers mixed doubles tomorrow," he said, already knowing her answer. "It could be fun. Like we used to be."

Maya sliced the papaya. Inside, it was perfect—bright orange and glistening. She ate it standing at the counter, juices running down her wrist, thinking about the word deficient. How it had followed her from the lab results to the bedroom to the tennis court.

"I'm going for a swim," she said, and didn't wait for his response.

The pool was empty at midnight. The water was warm, bathtub-warm, and she floated on her back staring at stars that didn't match the ones over their apartment in Chicago. She swam until her muscles burned, until she was too exhausted to feel the weight of what she wasn't saying.

Back in their room, David was asleep. On his nightstand, beside his padel racket grip tape, sat the papaya she'd sliced for him. Uneaten. Blackening at the edges.

Maya took her vitamin, swallowed it dry, and climbed into bed beside him. His breathing was even, peaceful. She lay awake calculating the cost of the trip, the unused massage credit, the flight home on Sunday, the years measured not in anniversaries but in the space between them in a king bed that felt like an ocean.