Blue Hour

The pool was empty at 4 AM, its surface still and blue-black under the dying security lights. Sarah sat on the edge, legs dangling in the tepid water, clutching her iPhone like a prayer wheel. Three unread messages from David. Two from her boss. One from her mother asking if she'd eaten.

She'd come to the Desert Springs Motor Court for a writing retreat—two weeks to finally finish the novel she'd been promising herself since grad school. But the notifications had started on day three. The urgent deadline on day seven. This morning, David's text: I met someone. I'm sorry.

She typed a response, deleted it. Typed another, deleted that too. Her thumb hovered. She wanted to tell him about the workshop last month, how they'd all sat in a circle admitting they felt like frauds. How the facilitator had called them "the walking dead" and nobody laughed. How she'd nodded along, thinking: I'm not a fraud. I'm just.

Just what?

She dropped the phone onto the concrete. In the pool's reflection, she saw her face—tired eyes, mouth set in something that wasn't quite a frown, wasn't quite anything at all.

A door opened on the other side. A man stepped out, maybe fifty, in boxers and a faded t-shirt. He walked to the edge, pulled a phone from his pocket, set it on a table, then stepped into the pool fully clothed.

Sarah watched him sink, then push back up, gasping. He did it again. And again. Like he was testing something. Like he was trying to remember how to breathe.

After the fourth time, he climbed out, dripping, and sat opposite her. "Sorry," he said. "Insomnia."

"Me too," she said.

"I'm Roger."

"Sarah."

He nodded at her phone. "Work or ex?"

"Both," she said. "Sort of. Neither. I don't know."

Roger laughed, short and surprised. "Yeah," he said. "That." He stood up, water streaming from his clothes. "Well. I'm going to try sleeping again. You should too. Whatever it is, it'll be there in the morning."

He went back inside. The door clicked shut.

The sky was beginning to lighten, that strange blue hour when everything feels both possible and impossible. She reached for her phone, then stopped. Let it wait. Whatever David meant, whatever her boss wanted—they'd still be there when she woke up.

She pulled her legs from the water and stood, dripping on the concrete. In the room next to hers, someone's phone buzzed. And buzzed again. The walking dead, checking in. She went inside and locked the door.