What the Bear Ate

The papaya sat between us on the breakfast table, bright orange against the white linen, like a radioactive wound we couldn't stop looking at. Its seeds were black and slick, tiny eyes watching whatever was left of our marriage decay in real time.

Mila's iPhone buzzed. Again. She didn't pick it up, just watched the screen light up with messages from her assistant, her mother, her trainer. A cascade of demands she'd been ignoring since we arrived at this remote Costa Rican eco-lodge three days ago. Or maybe she was ignoring me. I couldn't tell anymore.

"There's a bear," she said suddenly, eyes fixed on something beyond my shoulder.

I laughed, bitter coffee burning my throat. "Bears don't live in the jungle, Mila. That's North America. This is the tropics."

She didn't blink. "There's a bear outside the window, David."

I turned. A massive spectacled bear stood on our balcony, its shaggy black coat matted with rain, intelligent dark eyes assessing us through the glass. It shouldn't have been there—wrong continent, wrong habitat—but the universe had stopped making sense months ago, when I found her texts to him. When her iPhone became the thing that slept between us instead of each other.

The bear reached toward a papaya tree on the balcony, stripping the fruit with terrifying precision. It ate with an almost human tenderness, cleaning each section before moving to the next.

"How long?" I asked, watching the bear. Not looking at her.

"Six months. It's over. I swear."

The bear finished, looked at us one last time with what I swear was pity, then loped back into the jungle. Only the eaten papaya remained, its flesh exposed, seeds scattered like broken promises.

"Your phone," I said. "Give it to me."

Mila hesitated, then slid the iPhone across the table. I didn't check it. I just opened the balcony door and threw it into the rainforest, watching until it disappeared into the green darkness.

"Now," I said, pushing the papaya toward her. "We start over. Or we don't."

She took a piece, juice running down her fingers, and for the first time in months, really looked at me. The bear had eaten its fill. The rest was up to us.