Tropical Fruit

Elena stood on the balcony of the rented condo, her palm resting against the warm railing. Below, the Pacific stretched out like a bruised grapefruit—purple and orange at the horizon, gray where the sky met sea. The humidity was heavy, pressing against her skin like an unwanted memory.

'Still eating those?' Marcus's voice came from behind her. He held up her bottle of vitamin D supplements, shaking it like a maraca. 'I thought you were done with all that.' His tone wasn't mocking, exactly. Just tired.

Elena turned. 'My doctor says I'm deficient.' The lie slid out easily. She wasn't deficient in anything except hope, but Marcus didn't need to know that.

They'd come to Costa Rica to save their marriage, or at least to bury it properly. Eighteen years, and now they were strangers who shared a bed and a mortgage. The retreat had been Marcus's idea—his assistant had recommended it. Elena had wondered, briefly and viciously, what else the assistant had recommended.

Breakfast was sliced papaya and stale croissants from the corner market. The fruit was sweet and slightly musky, and it made Elena think of the first time they'd traveled together, to Mexico City. She'd been twenty-six, convinced that love would be enough to bridge every gap. Now she knew better. Love wasn't a bridge; it was just the thing that made you keep crossing the ravine even when your legs were shaking.

Their host's dog, a skeletal mutt with patchy fur, nosed at her ankle. Elena scratched its ears, grateful for something that wanted to be near her without expecting anything in return.

'You're like that dog,' Marcus said, not unkindly. 'Always taking in strays. First me, now this poor beast.' He smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.

'You were never a stray,' she said. 'You were the bull in the china shop. I was the one foolish enough to think I could turn you into something housebroken.' The words hung between them, softer than she intended.

Marcus stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the tile. 'I'm going for a swim.' He didn't ask her to join him. He never did anymore.

Elena watched him walk toward the beach, his shoulders bowed by years of carrying expectations he'd never asked for. The dog curled at her feet, and she picked up a piece of papaya, considering how something so sweet could leave such a strange aftertaste. Tomorrow they would go home. Tomorrow they would decide. But for now, there was only the heat, the sea, and the quiet work of ending things without ever saying the words aloud.