What the Papaya Knew

The rooftop pool glittered like spilled mercury under the Los Angeles sunset, but Maya couldn't enjoy its beauty. Her husband's assistant, Chloe, had been draping herself over the lounge chair for forty-five minutes, laughing too loudly at Richard's anecdotes about his tech startup's latest funding round.

Maya swam laps, trying to outpace the knot tightening in her chest. The water was cold against her skin—shockingly cold, like Richard's bedroom behavior these past six months. She surfaced near the shallow end, catching Chloe's gaze. The younger woman had something green stuck between her front teeth. Spinach, from the appetizer platter Richard had ordered with such flourish.

"You have a little—" Maya started, but Chloe just waved her manicured hand, dismissing her.

"The papaya looks amazing, Richard," Chloe purred, reaching for the fruit plate he'd brought over. "So sweet. Like, suspiciously sweet for this time of year."

Richard laughed. His laugh—that same resonant chuckle that had made Maya fall for him twelve years ago in a dive bar in Brooklyn. Now it just sounded like a performance.

"It's imported from Costa Rica," he said, feeding a slice to Chloe. "Only the best for my favorite team."

**My** favorite team. The words hung unsaid between them. Maya pulled herself from the pool, water dripping from her limbs like tears. She wrapped herself in a towel, watching her husband feed another woman fruit by the artificial turquoise water, under a sky that was trying hard to look beautiful but was mostly just smog.

She remembered their wedding vows. *In sickness and in health.* Richard had developed acid reflux last year—couldn't eat anything acidic. No tomatoes, no citrus, no papaya.

Chloe swallowed the fruit. Richard watched her throat move.

"So good," she said. "You should try it, Maya."

Maya walked past them, toward the elevator. Behind her, Richard called her name, but she kept walking. She'd left her spinach teeth unbrushed all week. What was one more lie between them?