The Things We Carry

Marisol stood on the balcony of the Santo Domingo hotel, her bare **palm** pressed against the railing's warm wood. Below her, the Caribbean dissolved into darkness, waves murmuring secrets she couldn't quite hear. Inside, Richard lay asleep—or pretending to be—his breathing too measured, too deliberate.

Three days ago, she'd found the receipt in his coat **pocket**. No, that wasn't right. She'd found the *other* receipt. The dinner she knew about was cover enough; the second one, at a place called *El Zorro*—the **fox**—told her everything Richard's careful silences had been screaming for months.

She'd worn the **hat** to dinner that night, the wide-brimmed straw one he'd bought her in Oaxaca last year, back when they still made each other laugh. He hadn't noticed it, or he had and said nothing. Both options felt equally devastating.

A street **cat** wound through the hotel courtyard below, pausing to look up at her with luminous eyes. It reminded her of the first night they'd met, outside that terrible dive bar in Chicago, when a stray had interrupted his carefully rehearsed pickup line and made them both laugh until they cried. God, she had loved him then.

She turned back to the room. On the nightstand sat the fruit they'd bought at the market that morning—**papaya**, split open and glistening in the moonlight. They'd eaten it together, standing at the kitchen counter of the rented apartment, his hip pressed against hers, juice dripping down their chins. She'd thought: *this is what happiness feels like. Not fireworks, not perfection. This.*

The thought came clearly, suddenly: she didn't want to spend the next thirty years wondering.

Marilos walked to the bed, leaned down, pressed her lips to Richard's forehead. He stirred but didn't wake. She left the hat on the pillow—let him find it, let him wonder—and walked out into the Santo Domingo night, the papaya still sweet on her tongue, carrying only what mattered.