Chlorine and Citrus

The pool was empty at 5 AM—just how Mara liked it. She slipped into the water, the cold shocking her awake, and began swimming laps. The rhythm calmed her: stroke, breathe, stroke, breathe. In the water, she didn't have to think about the text she'd found on David's phone last night.

She'd noticed it first—his hair. Dark, thick, impossible. She loved running her fingers through it when they curled up watching movies. Now the thought made her stomach twist. The text had been short, innocent really: dinner tomorrow? signed with an orange heart emoji. An orange heart. Not red. Not purple. Orange—the color they'd painted their bedroom, the color of the dress she wore to their wedding.

Mara flipped at the wall and pushed off hard. Her shoulder protested; she was getting too old for this aggressive morning routine. But the pain felt good. It felt real.

She surfaced, gasping. The lifeguard, a college kid named Josh who reminded her painfully of David at twenty-three, looked up from his phone. "You good, Mara?"

"Fine," she said, treading water. "Just fine."

Hair floated in the filter near the edge—strangers' hair, shed and forgotten. That's what she was afraid of becoming. Not the one who left, but the one who was left.

Last night she'd asked him about the text. His answer had been so reasonable it made her hate him a little: "It's Sophia, from work. We're collaborating on the Peterson proposal. And her favorite color is orange—she mentions it constantly."

It should've reassured her. Instead, it highlighted how much she didn't know about his daily life anymore. They ate dinner together most nights, but when had they last really talked?

Mara pulled herself from the pool, water dripping from her hair onto the concrete. She sat on the edge, legs still in the water, and watched the sun rise through the skylights. Everything looked orange and gold and possible.

David would be waking up soon. She'd go home, make coffee, and they'd have that conversation. The one where they figured out if they were swimming together or drifting apart. She stood up, grabbed her towel, and walked toward the locker room. Her wet hair stuck to her neck in cold strands. She didn't towel it dry.