Tropical Depression

The papaya sat on the white porcelain counter like a forgotten organ, its orange flesh weeping into the sink. Maya pressed her palm against the cool hotel mirror, staring at herself through the steam. Somewhere below, the reception was ending. She could hear the bass vibrating through the floor.

Her iPhone buzzed. David: Come back downstairs. Everyone's asking where you are.

She didn't answer.

The centerpiece on the vanity was a goldfish in a martini glass. Its mouth opened and closed in tiny, silent gasps. Maya watched it float there, suspended in colored water, and thought about how she and David had been exactly like this for six years — swimming in circles, pressing against the glass, pretending the world beyond their apartment was larger than it actually was.

The papaya was from the fruit basket in their room. She'd sliced it open at midnight, standing in the bathrobe with the hotel monogram, waiting for David to come back from the guys' room. He'd returned smelling like coconut lotion and whiskey. She'd pretended not to notice.

Now she picked up the papaya half, letting the juice run down her wrist. It tasted like regret and expensive vacations.

The goldfish darted suddenly, hitting the glass. Maya stepped back.

Her phone lit up again. David: Did you eat the papaya?

She stared at the message. Then she picked up the martini glass, carried it to the balcony, and poured the goldfish into the infinity pool below. For a moment it swam in the artificial current, confused and free. Then it disappeared into the darkness.

Maya typed back: I'm not coming back down.

She turned her phone off and stood there in the humid night air, her sticky palm against the railing, watching the water ripple where the fish had been, making her decision in the silence between waves.