The Weight of Summer

The papaya sat untouched on the bedside table, its skin yellowing in the humidity of the hotel room. Sarah had bought it at the market three days ago, when they still believed this weekend trip might save them. Now it sat like an accusation, growing softer, sweeter, rotting from the inside out.

From the balcony, David watched the pool below. Couples glided through turquoise water, their movements synchronized and effortless. He'd wanted to come here — Mexico, somewhere far from their life in Chicago. Far from the unspoken accusations that filled their silent dinners. Far from the dog, Buster, who'd died in February, leaving their house cavernous and strange.

"You're going out there again?" Sarah asked from behind him. She'd cut her hair last week. The long brown strands he'd loved to wrap around his fingers were gone, replaced by something sharp and severe.

"Just getting some air."

"You've been getting air for two hours, David."

She was right. He wasn't getting air. He was remembering. Last year, they'd been here together, whole in ways he hadn't understood until it was gone. Her hair wet and dark against her back. The way she laughed when she tasted something new — the papaya, the tequila, him. The way the pool reflected stars like scattered diamonds.

Now the pool reflected something else: the lies he'd been telling himself for months. That the distance between them was temporary. That the affair with his coworker meant nothing. That he could compartmentalize his life indefinitely.

He turned back to the room. Sarah was sitting on the edge of the bed, her face in her hands. The papaya had collapsed slightly under its own weight, a dark bruise spreading across its side.

"I'm leaving, David," she said, not looking up. "When we get back. I've found a place."

He should have been surprised. He should have fought. Instead, he felt something like relief, like exhaling after holding his breath for years.

"Okay," he said.

She looked up then, her eyes red-rimmed but steady. "Just okay?"

"No. Not okay. But necessary."

Later, as she packed her suitcase, he walked down to the pool alone. The water was colder than he remembered. The papaya, he realized, had been ripe all along. They'd just waited too long to taste it.