Tropical Decay

The papaya sat on the white nightstand, its skin mottled with yellow bruises like old age spots. Sarah watched it ripen over three days in the hotel room, measuring time in fruit while Marcus measured it in quarterly projections.

'Your vitamin D is low again,' he said, not looking up from his iPhone. The screen glow illuminated his face in the dim room. Outside, the Caribbean sea beckoned.

'We came here to swim,' Sarah said, already knowing his answer. 'Not to work.'

'One call, Sarah. Just one.' The orange juice from room service had formed a viscous skin on top. Nothing stayed fresh here.

She walked to the beach alone, the sand hot against her bare feet. Floating in the turquoise water, she watched other couples—some young and clinging to each other, some old and sitting in companionable silence. Where did她和 Marcus fall on that continuum?

When she returned, dripping and salty, Marcus was finally off the phone. The papaya had split open, revealing black seeds like tiny secrets. He took a bite, juice running down his chin, and for a moment she saw the man she'd married ten years ago.

'Sweet,' he said, surprised. 'You should try some.'

'Not hungry,' she replied, though she was. Just not for fruit. She packed her bag while he finished eating, the sound of his chewing loud in the sudden quiet of the room.

The resort offered papaya facials at the spa. Vitamin-rich, the brochure promised. Rejuvenating. Sarah booked one for tomorrow, knowing she'd check out alone. Some things, even with enough care and attention, just couldn't be saved from their own natural decay.