The Weight of Water

Marcus stood by the kitchen sink, watching the water run over his hands—cold, endless, washing away nothing. The papaya sat on the counter, already overripe, its skin freckled with brown like age spots on the woman he still called his wife in public, though they hadn't touched in six months.

"You're doing that thing," Elena said from the doorway. She held an orange between her palms, her thumbnails breaking the skin. Citrus scent bloomed between them, sharp and incongruous.

"What thing?" Marcus turned off the faucet. The silence that followed was louder than the water had been.

"The bull thing. Standing there like you're waiting for something to charge."

He almost smiled. She always saw through him, even now. Even when whatever connected them had stretched so thin it was practically translucent. He'd bought the papaya three days ago because she'd mentioned craving them once, years ago, in another country, another version of their marriage. Now it sat softening into mush, a testament to things said too late or not at all.

"I found the apartment listings," she said, peeling her orange. "The ones you bookmarked."

Marcus felt something hollow out in his chest. "I was just looking."

"Just looking at one-bedrooms in neighborhoods where we never go?" She separated a section of orange, brought it to her lips but didn't eat it. "The water's rising, Marcus. You can pretend you're standing still, but we're both drowning here."

The papaya had collapsed on itself. He threw it in the trash, where it landed with a wet thud. "I don't know how to be the person who leaves."

"You don't have to be." Elena placed the orange segment on the counter between them—a peace offering, or maybe a goodbye. "You just have to be honest about who you already are."

The water in the pipes stirred, the walls settling around them. Some things, Marcus realized, were simpler than he'd made them. You could wait for the bull to charge, or you could simply open the gate.

He reached for the orange.