What We Said About Papayas

The papaya arrived on a white ceramic plate, glistening with lime, and Sarah didn't look at him. Not once. She'd mastered the art of eating breakfast alone while sitting across from someone, her fork making small, precise movements against the fruit's flesh.

Three years ago in Kauai, she'd told him papaya tasted like musk and disappointment, and he'd laughed — that full-bodied laugh she'd fallen for — and ordered it anyway every morning because he said memory was worth acquiring a taste for.\nNow she ate it without complaint.\n

The resort infinity pool stretched before them, its surface so still it seemed painted. They'd come for their anniversary, that desperate ritual couples perform when they sense the end approaching. Bring it somewhere beautiful, the logic goes. Maybe the light will change.\n

The orange glow of sunset spilled across the terrace, turning everything the color of impending departure. This was the hour they used to drink wine and talk about everything and nothing. Now it was the hour they both checked their phones.

"I'm going swimming," he said, though they both knew he wasn't. He just needed to say something, anything, to fill the silence that had grown between them like a living thing.

She nodded, once. The movement barely disturbed her hair.

He walked to the pool's edge and stepped in fully clothed. The water was warm, heated to body temperature, and for a moment he couldn't tell where he ended and the water began. He submerged himself and held his breath, listening to the muffled world underwater, wondering if he could simply stay there — suspended, weightless, not choosing anything.

When he surfaced, gasping, she was still eating her papaya. The orange light had deepened to purple. The resort staff was lighting torches along the path, little flames that would guide them through dinner, through the night, through whatever remained of this life they'd built together.

He climbed out of the pool, water dripping from his clothes onto the stone. She didn't look up. The papaya was gone. Only the lime-slicked plate remained, like something already over.