Things We Don't Say

The chemotherapy hadn't taken her hair yet — that would come later — but Elena sat at the bathroom mirror anyway, running her fingers through the dark strands as if memorizing them. Marcus watched from the doorway, holding the cutting board they'd bought in Italy on that trip neither of them ever mentioned anymore.

"You're staring," she said, without turning around.

"I'm not."

"You are. Like I'm already gone."

Marcus set the cutting board on the counter. He'd bought a papaya at the farmer's market, one of those impulsive gestures that felt desperate now. The oncologist had mentioned eating fresh fruit, something about enzymes, as if enzymes could stop what was already growing inside her.

"Remember when we went swimming in Greece?" he asked, slicing through the fruit's bright orange flesh. "That cove where the water was so clear it looked like the sky had fallen into the sea."

Elena turned finally. Her eyes were tired in a way he'd never seen before, a weariness that went beyond sleep. "I remember you nearly drowning trying to impress me with that dive off the rocks."

"I was showing off. It worked."

"It did." She paused. "I can't swim anymore, Marcus. The port in my chest — the doctor said I can't submerge it."

The knife stopped. The silence stretched between them, thick with things they'd been avoiding for three weeks.

"We could find other things," he said, but even he heard how hollow it sounded.

Elena stood up, walked to him, and placed her hand over his on the knife. The papaya sat between them, brilliant and somehow obscene in its vitality.

"I don't want other things," she said. "I want to not be afraid."

Marcus pulled her into him then, feeling the sharp ridge of her collarbone, the way her body had already begun its slow surrender. She buried her face in his shoulder and he thought of the tattoo on her back — the small bear she'd gotten at twenty-two, fierce and permanent, because even then she'd known she needed to be stronger than she felt.

"You're still here," he whispered into her hair. "And I'm not going anywhere."

She didn't cry. They both knew there would be time for that later. Instead, she reached for a piece of papaya, brought it to her lips, and for a moment they pretended that sweetness was enough.