The Unspeaking Hours

Maya's gray hair had been appearing like stray thoughts at the edges of her temple—first one, then three, now a scattered constellation that Marcus found himself counting during their silent dinners. He wondered if she noticed his own; the hollows beneath his eyes, the way his shoulders collapsed after another day of riding the bull, corporate style—eight hours of Emails Like This that meant nothing, demanded everything, and left him feeling like something that had died but forgotten to lie down. A zombie in a tailored suit.

The papaya sat on the counter between them, vibrant and absurd in its orange insistence, a leftover from her impulse purchase at the market. Something about wanting to feel tropical, she'd said. Something about needing color.

"You're doing it again," Maya said, not looking up from her wine.

"Doing what?"

"The thing where you're here but you're not. The zombie thing."

The word hit the table between them. She'd noticed too.

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

"No." Her finger traced the stem of her glass. "It's not just tired. It's like you've already left. Like you're waiting for something better to happen, but you can't quite remember what better was supposed to look like."

The bull at work—his actual boss, a man named Davidson who specialized in making people feel small—had asked him that morning if he still had fire in his belly. Marcus had almost laughed. Fire implied there was something left to burn.

"Remember Costa Rica?" Maya asked suddenly.

He did. The papaya had been sweeter there. The air had smelled like salt and possibility. His hair had been darker then, and hers untouched by time. They'd made promises they couldn't keep.

"I bought it," she said, nodding toward the fruit on the counter. "Because I thought maybe if we ate it, we'd remember. That we'd want that again. That we'd want us again."

The papaya sat between them like an offer, like a question, like the only thing in the room that was still alive.

Marcus stood up and walked to the counter. He picked up the knife. He cut the papaya in half, scooped out the seeds, and carried both halves back to the table.

"It's probably not as good," he said, sitting down. "But we can try."

Maya looked at him for a long moment. Then she picked up her spoon.

"Trying," she said, "has always been your problem."

But she was smiling, just a little. And for the first time in months, Marcus thought maybe the bull hadn't won after all.