The Untouched Screen

The pool lay still—too still for a Tuesday at the Ritz-Carlton. Only Maya sat at the edge, legs submerged in water that felt like bathwater left out too long. Her iPhone rested face-up on the lounge chair beside her, screen dark, notifications piling up in silence like unopened mail. Mark's last message sat at the top of the lock screen, still unread after three hours.

She reached for the papaya she'd ordered from room service, the fruit's sunset-colored flesh glistening against the white ceramic plate. It was perfectly ripe, the kind of expensive perfection that tasted like absence. She took a bite, sweet and cloying, thinking how Mark would have made some comment about tropical decadence, would have reached for his phone to Instagram it. His phone was always in his hand, like a fifth finger he couldn't put down.

"You're going to drop that in the pool."

Maya looked up. A man stood near the cabana, maybe forty, expensive watch sagging slightly on a wrist that had seen better days. He gestured to her iPhone, precariously close to the water's edge.

"It's waterproof," she said, though it wasn't really. Not that it mattered.

He approached, and she saw his wedding band—white gold, badly scuffed. "Mind if I sit? Everywhere else is full."

"Full of people who aren't here."

"Exactly." He settled onto the adjacent lounge chair. "I'm David."

"Maya."

They sat in silence that felt companionable rather than awkward. The papaya grew warm in the heat. Her phone screen lit up—another message from Mark. David's phone buzzed too, and they both watched their devices light up simultaneously like signals from distant planets they'd left behind.

"Your husband?" David asked, not unkindly.

"Soon to be ex-husband. He's at the Ritz in Cancun. With his assistant."

David exhaled. "My wife is at the Ritz in Maui. With her trainer."

They looked at each other, really looked, and Maya felt something unclench in her chest—something that had been tight since she'd found the texts on Mark's phone three months ago.

"You know what's funny?" David said. "We both have these phones"—he gestured to the devices—"these lifelines to everything, but right now, they're just paperweights. They're not helping."

Maya picked up her iPhone, thumbs hovering over the screen, then set it down on the table beside the papaya. She extended her hand, palm open, fingers relaxed.

"No," she said. "They're not."

David took her hand. His palm was warm, calloused in ways that suggested work, not privilege. They stayed like that as the sun dipped toward the ocean, two strangers by an empty pool, touching in a way that felt more honest than anything either had experienced in years. The papaya turned brown in the heat. The phones went dark. For the first time in months, Maya didn't check them.