What We Ate Before the Ending

The papaya sat between us like a confession. Bright orange flesh, glistening in the tropical heat, seeds wet and dark as secrets we'd stopped telling.

Marc sipped his coffee, staring past me at the palm trees swaying over the resort pool. Their fronds cast shadows across his face—his beautiful, unfamiliar face. Ten years of marriage, and I still didn't know what he was thinking.

"You haven't touched your fruit," he said.

I watched a lizard dart between the loungers. "Not hungry."

"You're not hungry for anything anymore."

The accusation hung there, heavier than the humidity. Lightning cracked somewhere beyond the horizon—a storm was coming, they'd warned us at check-in. But the sky above us remained brutally blue.

"That's not fair," I said finally.

"What's not fair?" His voice tight. "That I notice? That I'm here, trying, and you're—what are you doing, Elena? Checking your watch? Counting down the hours until you can fly back to your apartment?"

"You're the one who booked the trip."

"Because I thought it would fix things."

He set down his cup so hard the coffee sloshed over the rim. A drop hit the white tablecloth like blood.

"I bought papaya," he said, like this meant something. "Because it was your favorite on our honeymoon. Remember? We ate it every morning in Bali. You said—"

"I remember what I said."

The air between us thickened. Couples walked by in bright swimsuits, laughing, holding hands. Their ease made my chest ache. We used to be like that. Before the promotion, before the missed dinners, before I found the receipt for the diamond necklace that never appeared.

Lightning flashed again, closer this time. The clouds above the pool were bruising purple.

"I'm not her anymore," I said. "The woman who loved papaya and believed everything would work out if we just tried hard enough."

Marc looked at me, really looked at me, for the first time in days. "I don't know who you are now."

"Neither do I."

The first raindrop hit the table, right next to the uneaten fruit. Then another. People started scattering, grabbing their towels, running for cover. We sat still.

"We should go inside," he said.

"In a minute."

I watched the rain flatten my hair, my dress, wash away the sweat and the pretense. Lightning illuminated the pool—churning, opaque, suddenly alien. The papaya between us grew soft in the downpour, collapsing into itself, becoming something unrecognizable.

It was the first time in months I felt clean.