Tropical Decisions

The papaya sat untouched on the bedside table, its orange flesh browning where she'd sliced it hours ago. Elena watched the fruit oxidize in the hotel room's artificial twilight, her phone lighting up every few minutes with texts she couldn't bring herself to answer.

Down at the resort's private beach, the evening padel tournament was underway. She could hear the rhythmic thwack of racquets against ball, the competitive laughter of the couples who'd come together. They'd signed up as a pair — her and Marcus — back when they still remembered how to be partners instead of roommates who happened to share a bed and a mortgage.

Her palm rested on the cool glass of the sliding door. Outside, the infinity pool reflected the last purple streaks of sunset. Two figures were swimming in the dark water, their movements synchronized, intimate. Elena squinted. A woman floated on her back while a man treaded water beside her, close enough that their arms brushed with each rotation. The woman laughed at something he said, tilting her head back, her wet hair fanning across the water's surface like dark silk.

The iphone on the nightstand buzzed again. Marcus: 'Where are you? We're up next.'

Elena had watched Marcus all week — the way his phone kept buzzing with messages from "work" that made him smile, the way he'd disappear for "important calls" during meals, the way he'd started wearing cologne to breakfast. The papaya had been their breakfast compromise: she'd wanted fresh fruit, he'd wanted the buffet. They'd compromised on everything for seven years, compromising away pieces of themselves until neither could remember what they'd started with.

The swimming couple surfaced near the pool's edge. The man lifted himself out first, then reached back to help the woman. In the dim light, Elena saw the familiar slope of his shoulders, the way he ran a hand through his hair when he thought no one was watching.

Her palm pressed harder against the glass. She watched them gather their towels, watched the way his hand lingered at the small of her back. They were walking toward the hotel now, toward the room where Elena's untouched papaya continued its slow decay.

The iphone lit up again. Marcus: 'Babe, seriously. Everyone's waiting.'

Elena picked up the phone. Her thumb hovered over the screen as she watched them approach, two dark figures against the palm trees, silhouetted against a sky that had forgotten how to hold onto light. She opened messages. She started typing something — not to him, but to her sister, who'd been saying for years that some compromises cost too much.

The papaya sat brown and softening on the nightstand. Somewhere, a racquet hit a ball. Somewhere, a door was about to open, or maybe to close forever. Elena waited, thumb hovering, as the silence of the room finally answered the question she'd been asking all week.