Bottom of the Pool

The hotel pool was empty at 2 AM, which was exactly why Elena had chosen it. She'd left her iphone in the room, though she could still feel its phantom weight in her pocket—a pocket that had held the notification that destroyed her marriage only twelve hours earlier.

She slipped into the water fully clothed. The silk blouse was ruined, yes, but it had already been stained by his betrayal. Swimming in office attire felt like a strange kind of rebellion against the careful life she'd built—the one where she was the perfect wife, the perfect senior VP, the perfect woman who had somehow missed that her husband was sleeping with his assistant.

The water was cool against her skin, and she let herself sink to the bottom, eyes open. From down here, the world was muffled and blue. She remembered their golden retriever, Buster, who'd died two years ago. He'd loved water. Would plunge into any lake, pond, or pool without hesitation, joyous and wet and alive in a way she'd forgotten how to be.

'Buster wouldn't check his email at the bottom of a pool,' she thought, surfacing with a splash.

She surfaced to the sound of her own laughter—hysterical, sharp, cutting through the silence. She was thirty-nine years old, hovering in the shallow end of a Marriott pool in a city she'd been flown to for a merger she'd negotiated alone, while her husband was likely explaining to their friends why his wife had walked out of their anniversary dinner.

Her iphone buzzed on the lounge chair where she'd abandoned it. She didn't need to look to know it was him. Or maybe it was HR. Or her mother, who would tell her to think about her career, her reputation, the optics.

Elena swam to the edge and hauled herself out, dripping and shivering. She picked up the phone. Six missed calls. Three voicemails. A text message: 'Please let me explain.'

She turned it off.

The pool lights reflected on the water's surface, rippling and distorted. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked—a sharp, insistent sound that pierced her solitude. Buster, alive in some other world, perhaps. Or just someone else's dog, reminding her that life went on.

She thought about the dog they'd almost gotten last month. The rescue had called yesterday to say the adoption was approved. Now she'd be picking him up alone.

'That's fine,' she said aloud to the empty pool. 'Dogs are better than men anyway.'

She wrung out her ruined blouse and started walking back to her room, leaving wet footprints on the concrete that would dry before morning. By tomorrow, she'd be in a different city. By next week, she'd be divorced. By next month, she'd have a dog who loved her more than enough to make up for everything else.