Unraveling

The cable stitch had been the first to go. Elena sat on the edge of the hotel pool in Puerto Rico, her fingers absently picking at the loose thread on her sleeve. One yank, and the whole sleeve might unravel. She found herself hoping it would.

"You're not swimming," Mark called from the deep end. His voice echoed off the tiled walls.

"I'm thinking."

"We're supposed to be enjoying ourselves. This was YOUR idea."

That was the thing about Mark—he was always counting. Counting costs, counting disappointments, now counting her failures to participate. The papaya she'd eaten for breakfast sat heavy in her stomach, sweet and cloying, like the vacation itself.

Three years of marriage. Eight months since she'd stopped taking her birth control without telling him. Two weeks since she'd finally said the words: "I think I made a mistake."

"Elena?"

She looked down at her arm. The cable stitch had given way to a run that now stretched from her wrist to her elbow. The sweater had been a gift from him last Christmas. He'd remembered she liked aran knits—something from her childhood. He was good at remembering details. He just never seemed to remember the whole.

"I'm done," she said, standing up. The pool lights cast wavering blue patterns across her skin.

"Done swimming?"

"Done with all of it."

She walked back to their room without waiting for his response. The papaya on the nightstand was overripe now, its skin spotted with brown. She left it there when she packed her bag—let him deal with the rotting fruit. He was good at cleanup.

Her fingers returned to the loose thread on her sleeve. One firm tug, and the sleeve began to unravel completely. By the time she reached the lobby, her sweater was half its former self. By the time she boarded the plane home, she'd left the whole thing in the airport trash can.

Some things, she decided, were worth destroying.