The Sweet Rot of Summer

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin freckled with brown like age spots on my mother's hands. I'd bought it on impulse at the market, something tropical and bright to combat the gray Seattle winter pressing against the windows. But now it sat there, mocking me.

"You're going to think about him forever," Elena said, not looking up from her phone. She was twenty-five, young enough that her hair still bounced when she walked, young enough that heartbreak felt like something you earned rather than something that simply happened to you.

I traced the scar on my forearm—three parallel lines from the bear encounter in Yellowstone, three years into my marriage. Richard had wanted to turn back. I'd insisted we continue. The bear had been as surprised to see us as we were to see it, a clumsy collision of creatures in the wrong place. That's what I told myself later.

"It's not about him," I said. "It's about what I allowed."

The padel tournament had been his idea, of course. A weekend in Cabo with his work friends, their wives trailing behind like accessories. I'd never played. Richard laughed when I asked him to teach me, said I'd pick it up, that I was athletic. He meant well-kept.

I met Carlos at the hotel bar. He was the coach for the visiting team, his hands rough and competent, his eyes holding none of Richard's careful calculation. We didn't sleep together. We sat on the patio and he talked about his daughter in Guadalajara. I talked about the baseball Richard collected—signed balls, worn gloves, fragments of other men's achievements that lined our study like trophies.

"He doesn't see you," Carlos said, and the words were sharper than any kiss could have been.

Now, Elena sighed, her dramatic youth exhausting me. "Just eat the papaya or throw it out."

I picked it up. It yielded to my touch, overripe and perfect. Inside, the seeds clustered like secrets waiting to spill. I ate it standing over the sink, sweet and faintly musky, the kind of taste that stays with you long after you've finished. Outside, rain began to fall. Somewhere, Richard was probably arranging his baseballs. Somewhere, Carlos was teaching someone to serve. And I was here, alone, letting the juice run down my chin, finally hungry.