Blue Chlorine and Regret

The water in the motel pool shimmered like crushed diamonds under the desert sun, but Arthur couldn't bring himself to touch it. At forty-seven, newly divorced and sleeping on his brother's couch, he'd lost the courage for many things—clean water included.

A stray dog—some mangy shepherd mix with one ear permanently flopped—had been watching him from the shade of a rusted propane tank for three days. They'd developed an understanding. Arthur threw half his sandwich under the palm tree each afternoon; the dog pretended not to notice him until the food landed.

"You're smarter than I was," Arthur muttered, cracking open a lukewarm beer. "At least you wait for it to hit the ground before committing."

The distant crack of a baseball bat echoed from the park across the street. Little League practice. The sound knocked something loose in Arthur's chest—memories of weekends with his daughter, who'd chosen college and distance over their Tuesday afternoon pitching sessions. She was twenty now and hadn't called since the divorce papers were served.

He'd been so careful. Made every right play. Saved for retirement. Stayed in the marriage even when love had curdled into mutual tolerance. But somehow, he'd still ended up here: drinking cheap beer beside a fetid pool while a dog judged his life choices.

The dog limped over, flopping down in the rectangle of shade cast by Arthur's lawn chair. They watched a group of teenagers cannonball into the pool, chlorine and testosterone and the careless laughter of people who believed time was something they had in abundance.

"Water's gotta be ninety degrees," Arthur said, more to himself than the dog. "You going in?"

The dog thumped his tail once, wisely.

"Yeah," Arthur sighed. "Me neither."