Tropical Depression

The papaya sat on her desk like a small, orange sun — an absurd gift from a vendor who didn't understand that cold-weather clients couldn't be bought with tropical fruit. Mara stared at it through the blur of her third martini. At forty-three, she'd learned that corporate consulting was mostly about being the person in the room who could pretend to care.

Her iphone buzzed against the mahogany. Another text from Julian. *You coming home?* She watched the letters swim. Three years of marriage, and he still texted like a teenager checking in on a sleepover. The phone's glass reflected her face — mascara smudged, eyes hollow, a stranger staring back.

"You okay?"

It was Daniel from Accounting. He was wearing that ridiculous fedora again, the one he'd clearly bought to signal something about himself that he couldn't say out loud. In the office's fluorescent harshness, he looked like a child playing dress-up.

"Just admiring the fruit," she said.

He laughed. It was genuine, which was worse. "Vendor gave me one too. Don't know what they think we're going to do with papayas in Chicago."

"Eat them?"

"Mine's already rotting on my kitchen counter." He stepped closer. "You know, my wife says I'm like that fruit — looks exotic on the outside, disappointing on the inside."

Mara felt something crack open in her chest. "Is she right?"

Daniel's smile faltered. A flicker of something real beneath the corporate polish. "She moved out last month."

The confession hung between them, small and terrible. Outside, snow had been falling for hours. Inside, the papaya continued its slow, silent oxidation. She thought about Julian at home, probably making dinner, probably being exactly who he said he was. She thought about the version of herself she'd sold him, the one who wanted matching towels and weekend brunches. The woman who didn't drink alone at hotel bars.

"I don't want to go home either," she said.

Daniel's iphone lit up too. They both ignored it.

"Let me cut that thing open," he said, nodding toward the papaya. "See if it's actually worth something."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pocketknife — of course he carried one, of course he was that kind of man. As he sliced through the fruit's skin, black seeds spilled onto the desk like forgotten prayers. The smell hit them both: sweet, fermenting, almost sickening.

"Well," he said. "That's disappointing."

"No," Mara said, tasting it on the air. "That's exactly what it is."

She picked up her phone, scrolled through Julian's texts — the ones she'd answered automatically, the ones she'd half-meant — and deleted them all. Then she ordered another martini. The hat-wearing accountant from Accounting watched her do it, and for the first time all night, she didn't look away.