Tropical Depression

The papaya sat untouched on the white ceramic plate, its flesh the color of a bruised sunset. Elena had ordered it because it reminded her of their honeymoon in Belize—how Richard had teased the fruit apart with his fingers, licked the juice from her wrists. Now he sat across from her at the resort restaurant, scrolling through emails, his phone casting a blue glow on his untouched eggs.

"Did you hear me?" she asked.

"Hmm? Sorry. The merger." He didn't look up.

They were supposed to be fixing their marriage. This was the package deal: five days at this jungle resort, couples counseling sessions at 10 AM, expensive tropical drinks at sunset. But Richard had spent every session in the lobby, taking calls.

Elena stood up. "I'm going to the pool."

"Join me after?" he asked, finally meeting her eyes. "I promise, just one more call."

She didn't answer.

The pool was empty—everyone else was at the morning workshop or still sleeping off last night's overpriced wine. Elena stripped down to her swimsuit, a black one-piece she'd bought for this trip, hopeful and stupid. She lowered herself into the water. It was colder than she expected, shocking against her skin.

She floated on her back, staring up at the canopy where vervet monkeys chattered, tearing into something they'd stolen from the kitchen. She thought about her life before Richard—before the house in the suburbs, before the quarterly reviews and the dinner parties that felt like job interviews. She'd been wild then. Unpredictable. She'd once driven to New Orleans on a Tuesday just because she craved beignets.

A rustle in the bushes. She thought it was another monkey until she saw the russet fur, the pointed face watching her from the edge of the pool deck. A fox—here, in the tropics. It was impossible, they didn't live here, but there it was, its yellow eyes fixed on her with something like intelligence. Or maybe pity.

"You don't belong here either," she whispered.

The fox dipped its head once, then vanished back into the undergrowth.

Elena climbed out of the pool, water streaming off her body like she was being washed clean of something. She didn't go back to the restaurant. She didn't go to the room to pack her things. She walked to the resort's front desk in her dripping swimsuit, her credit card in hand, and asked for a room of her own.

She would deal with Richard tomorrow. She would deal with the divorce, the house, the life she'd built like a house of cards. Tonight she would order papaya from room service and eat it with her fingers, alone, and she would not think about him at all.