Tropical Fruits & Silver Strands

Marissa stood before the bathroom mirror, tweezing yet another silver hair from her temple. At forty-three, the grays were multiplying like secrets kept—each one a small betrayal of the woman she still believed herself to be. Behind her, the papaya sat on the counter, its flesh the color of sunset, ripe and already beginning to soften in the afternoon heat. Derek had bought it yesterday, this gesture of domestic tenderness that now felt like a reproach.

She was supposed to be at yoga. Instead, she'd spent the last hour running errands that weren't errands at all—driving past Marcus's neighborhood, circling blocks she had no reason to circle, her foot hovering over the brake, then the gas, then the brake again. Three weeks since she'd ended it. Three weeks of waking beside Derek's sleeping form and feeling something twist in her chest that wasn't quite guilt, wasn't quite relief.

Barnaby, Derek's ancient golden retriever, scratched at the bathroom door. He'd been her confidante in a way—listening to her muffled cries in the garage, pressing his warm flank against her legs when she sat on the floor staring at nothing in the dark. Dogs knew. They always knew.

Marissa sliced into the papaya, its black seeds spilling out like something ancient and unknowable. She thought of Marcus's apartment, how it had smelled of papaya and ambition and sex. How she'd run there every Tuesday and Thursday for six months, telling herself it wasn't an affair, it was—a what? A rediscovery? A temporary madness?

"Marissa?" Derek's voice from downstairs. "You coming down?"

She looked at her reflection one last time, at the hair she hadn't managed to pluck, at the woman who'd almost destroyed everything for something that tasted sweet but left her hungry anyway. "Yes," she called back. "I'm coming."