Tropical Fruit in Winter

The papaya sat on the granite countertop like an accusation.

Marcus stood at the kitchen island, cutting into the fruit with surgical precision. The knife made a soft, wet sound as it split the tropical flesh—black seeds spilling like secrets neither of them wanted to voice.

"You're taking your vitamin again," Elena said from the doorway. She was still in her silk robe, her hair—still thick and dark at forty-two, unlike his—falling in messy waves around her shoulders. "Every morning this week."

"Doctor's orders." Marcus didn't turn around. The papaya's scent filled the kitchen, sweet and cloying, like something from a life they'd promised each other fifteen years ago. "My levels are low."

"Which levels?" She crossed the room, her bare feet silent on the cold floor. "Because your testosterone is fine. I saw the results."

He finally looked at her. "Everything's fine, El. Can't a man take care of himself?"

The papaya was perfectly cubed now. He placed it in two bowls, added a sprinkle of lime juice, the way her mother had taught him during that trip to Mexico they'd never stopped talking about, somehow convincing themselves that one week in a beach town had been the foundation of a marriage instead of just a vacation.

"You forgot the mint," she said.

"I didn't forget. We're out."

"We're never out of mint. You plant it every spring."

Marcus slid one bowl toward her, their fingers brushing. He noticed how her hands had changed—thinner at the knuckles, more prominent veins. His own hands had aged too, though he tried not to think about it. The vitamin bottle sat on the counter behind him: Vitamin D3, 5000 IU. He'd been lying about the doctor's orders. The bottle had been sitting in his medicine cabinet for three years, expired since last autumn.

He'd started taking them again three days ago, when she'd mentioned at dinner that her coworker—young, vibrant, with hair that caught the light like a halo—had asked if she was happy. Not happy with the project, or the timeline, but happy. The question had hung between them like smoke.

"It's good," Elena said, eating a piece of papaya. "Even without the mint."

"El—"

"Don't." She met his eyes. "Whatever you're about to say, don't. Just eat your breakfast."

So they ate together in the morning light, the tropical fruit reminding them of promises made in another lifetime, the vitamin dissolving unseen in his stomach, and between them, everything unsaid growing louder than anything they could possibly speak.