What the Rain Washed Clean

Maya stood under the showerhead, letting the hot water cascade over her shoulders as she worked conditioner through her hair, her fingers moving through the tangled strands with practiced automatism. The bathroom mirror had long since fogged over, obscuring her reflection, which was fine—she didn't particularly want to see herself tonight.

On the sink counter, her iphone buzzed with that particular rhythm she'd come to dread—the notification that meant HE was messaging. Not her husband, asleep in the next room, but the man she'd met four months ago at that conference in Miami. She should block him. She knew she should.

She remembered the morning after: how they'd eaten papaya on the balcony of his hotel room, the sweet, musky fruit dripping down their chins as they laughed, both pretending this wasn't destroying other lives. How he'd brushed a strand of wet hair from her face and said, "This doesn't feel wrong, does it?" And she'd believed him, because she needed to.

The phone buzzed again.

Maya turned off the water and stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a towel. Her husband's phone sat beside hers on the counter. His screen lit up too—another message, another secret. For a terrible moment, she thought about picking it up, about confirming what she'd suspected for weeks.

Instead, she walked into the bedroom, where he slept peacefully, his breathing rhythmic and trustful. She could wake him. She could demand answers. She could finally say the words that had been lodged in her throat for months.

The papaya had tasted sweet that morning, but it had rotted from the inside out.

Maya lay down beside him, feeling the dampness of her hair against the pillow, and closed her eyes. Some truths, she decided, were better left underwater.