Blue Tile, Black Mirror

The hotel pool was empty at 11 PM, which was exactly what Mark needed. His iPhone lay face-down on the ceramic table, the screen still glowing with his wife's text: *I think we should talk when you get home.*

He'd been staring at the message for twenty minutes. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, a lone figure cut through the chlorinated water, swimming lap after steady lap. Mark found himself counting the strokes, mesmerized by the rhythm. One arm, two arms, breathe. One arm, two arms, breathe.

The swimmer emerged—a woman maybe ten years younger, water streaming from her dark hair. She shook her head like their dog used to after baths in the backyard, before the promotions and the house upgrades and the quiet that had settled between them like dust.

Mark's phone buzzed again. He didn't pick it up.

He thought about that day in college, playing baseball under an October sky, the smell of fallen leaves and anticipation thick in the air. He'd hit a home run that day—his only one ever. Sarah had been watching from the bleachers. They'd been married two years later.

What had happened to that boy who could swing for the fences?

The woman at the pool noticed him watching and waved, casual as anything. Mark raised a hand in response, then caught himself. What was he doing? He was forty-three, wearing a suit that cost more than his first car, standing in a Marriott in a city he couldn't remember the name of,

*contemplating... what?*

His iPhone lit up with a third message. *Are you there?*

He picked it up, thumbs hovering over the screen. Through the glass, the swimmer dove back into the water, slicing through the silence like something decisive. Something clean.

Mark typed: *I'm here. I'm listening.*

Then he set the phone down and walked toward the pool, kicked off his loafers, and sat on the edge, feet dangling in the cool water. Tomorrow could wait. Tonight, he'd just sit here and watch her swim until something in him remembered how to move again.