Tropical Decay

The papaya sat on the white porcelain plate, its orange flesh glistening like something that had already begun to rot. Elena picked at it with her fork, watching juice bleed onto the pristine tablecloth.

"You're not eating," Marcus said. His voice was gentle, the same tone he used with clients who couldn't pay their invoices.

"Not hungry."

"It's supposed to be the best papaya on the island. The resort grows them organic."

"Everything here is supposed to be the best," she said. "The best yoga. The best meditation. The best fucking papaya."

Marcus sighed, the sound barely audible over the ocean waves crashing beyond their cabana. This was their last-ditch effort — a couples' wellness retreat in Costa Rica, three thousand dollars a night, recommended by his therapist. Vitamin drips every morning. Colonics. Sound baths. Anything to repair what seven years of marriage had somehow broken beyond recognition.

She looked at him, really looked at him, and tried to remember when she'd stopped seeing the man who'd once drunk cheap wine with her on a fire escape in Brooklyn, making plans to change the world. Now he took vitamin supplements in alphabetical order and scheduled sex on their shared calendar.

"I saw you with her," Elena said quietly.

Marcus's fork paused halfway to his mouth. "With who?"

"The yoga instructor. The one with the perfect skin who looks like she's never had a cynical thought in her life."

"That's not — Elena, you're being paranoid. The stress is affecting your judgment. That's literally what this place is for."

"Is it?" She stood up, her chair scraping against the tile floor. "Or is it just expensive water for people who don't know how to feel things anymore?"

Outside, rain began to fall suddenly, the tropical downpour turning their ocean view into a gray blur. Elena walked to the edge of the cabana and let the water spray her face, mixing with tears she hadn't realized she was crying.

Behind her, Marcus said nothing. The papaya continued its slow oxidation on the plate between them, turning from sunrise orange to the color of things that had been left out too long.

"We can't vitamin our way out of this," she said, not turning around. "Some things just rot."