The Weight of Breakfast

The papaya sat between them like an unspoken accusation, its orange flesh glistening in the harsh morning light. Elena pushed her chair back, the legs scraping against the floor with a sound that made David wince.

"You're not going to eat it," he said, not a question.

"I'm not hungry."

"You ordered it."

"I thought I might be."

She stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the pool's water caught the sunlight—blinding, artificial blue, the kind of water that existed only in places where people went to forget things. They'd come to Cabo for their anniversary, trying to resuscitate something that had been dying for months.

David watched her. His wife's silhouette against the glass, the curve of her spine. He remembered their first trip to Spain, ten years ago. They'd watched the running bulls in Pamplona, drunk on cheap wine and the terrifying thrill of it all. She'd squeezed his hand as a bull charged past, both of them terrified and electrified. That feeling—that they were in this together, whatever "this" was—had sustained them through layoffs, through his mother's death, through the miscarriage they never talked about.

Now she stood with her back to him, and the distance between them felt measured in more than feet.

"I saw the messages," Elena said, still facing the window.

The air left the room. David's fork clattered against his plate.

"She's just a colleague."

Elena turned. Her expression wasn't angry. It was worse—it was empty. The way people looked when they'd already mourned something that was still breathing.

"I know what colleagues look like, David. I work with them every day."

She walked back to the table, picked up her glass of water. The condensation had pooled on the coaster, a small, translucent lake. She looked at him for a long moment, then turned and walked toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To pack."

"Elena—"

"You can have the papaya." She paused at the doorframe. "You always were better at pretending things were sweet when they'd already started to rot."

The door clicked shut behind her. David sat alone with the fruit between them, its orange heart quietly oxidizing in the heat.