The Sweetness of Rotten Fruit

The padel court shimmered in the midday heat, a geometric cage where Richard and Elena circled each other—not as partners in a sport, but as combatants in a marriage fifteen years past its expiration date. He smashed the ball against the glass wall; she watched it bounce, calculating trajectories that had nothing to do with points scored.

"You're not even trying," he said afterward, wiping sweat from his forehead with the palm of his hand. The gesture was almost intimate.

"I'm tired, Richard. That's all."

They sat by the resort pool, where palm fronds cast elaborate shadows on the concrete. A waiter brought them cocktails—something bright and vicious with a wedge of orange perched precariously on the rim. Elena picked at the fruit, remembering how Richard used to peel oranges for her in their first apartment, the way his fingers would section each piece so carefully, the juice running down his wrists. Now he ordered room service and barely looked up from his emails.

"David from accounting will be here tomorrow," Richard said, not meeting her eyes. "For the retreat."

David. The name settled between them like something stale. Elena had seen the text messages—nothing explicit, nothing she could confront him with without sounding paranoid, but there was a pattern to late-night replies and sudden "emergencies" at the office. She wondered if David played padel. She wondered if Richard would peel oranges for him.

She squeezed the orange wedge into her drink, watching the oil separate on the surface. "You should have told me you'd invited associates. I would have dressed for dinner."

"It's not like that."

"Isn't it?"

A palm tree rustled in the wind, dropping a single brown frond onto the pristine pool deck. Someone would clean it up before guests noticed. Someone always cleaned up before guests noticed. That was the luxury of having money—you paid people to pretend nothing was rotting underneath.

Elena finished her drink in one swallow, the artificial sweetness coating her throat. Tomorrow she would play padel with David's wife. Tomorrow she would smile and make small talk about children and investments and the beautiful weather. Tomorrow she would peel an orange, section by section, and wonder which of them would finally admit they were both starving.

"Richard," she said, standing up. "I think I'll go to the bar alone tonight."

He didn't look up from his phone. "Fine. Whatever."

The orange peel lay curled on the table like something shed and forgotten.