chlorine and Old Memories

The motel pool sat stagnant at 3 AM, its surface reflecting the sickly orange glow of the vacancy sign. Martin sat on the concrete edge, legs dangling in the water, fully clothed. His dress pants were already ruined. The shirt—one of those wrinkle-free blends—would never be the same.

Three hours ago, he'd signed the papers. Fourteen years dissolved in a conference room with neutral walls and a lawyer who charged $400 an hour to say things like "irreconcilable differences" and "equitable distribution."

The water rippled as he shifted his weight. Chlorine and something else—maybe neglect.

"You're going to drown yourself in three feet of water? That would be pathetic even for you."

Martin didn't turn. He knew that voice. Had known it since sixth grade, when Dean had thrown a baseball at his head and called him a pussy for crying when it connected. They'd been friends ever since.

"I'm not drowning," Martin said. "I'm sitting."

Dean sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders almost touched. He still smelled like whatever cologne he'd worn since college. Something expensive and distinct.

"She took the house, didn't she?"

"She earned it. She paid for half the renovations. She put up with me."

"Self-pity doesn't look good on you, Marty."

Martin finally looked at him. Dean had aged. Crow's feet. Thinning hair. The last time they'd spoken was at Dean's second wedding, four years ago. Martin had given a toast that made everyone laugh. Dean had thanked him by sleeping with the catering assistant and getting divorced within the year.

"Why are you here?" Martin asked.

"Your sister called. Said you might do something stupid."

"I'm not going to—"

"I know. But she doesn't." Dean reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a flask. "Want some?"

"It's 3 AM."

"Exactly the right time." Dean took a swig. "Remember when we played baseball in college? That tournament you got us into?"

"We lost every game."

"We had fun. You hit that one ball into the parking lot. Broke someone's windshield."

"We paid for that windshield for six months."

"Yeah." Dean laughed. It was a genuine sound. "God, we were stupid."

Martin looked at the orange neon again. It buzzed slightly. "I don't know what comes next."

"That's the point, dumbass." Dean stood up, brushed off his pants. "Come on. I know a place that's open. They have orange juice. And real coffee. And pancakes that'll give you a heart attack."

Martin sat for another moment. The water lapped at his calves. Then he pulled his legs out, dripping, and stood up.

"I'm driving," Dean said.

"You've been drinking."

"Since when do you care?"

Martin laughed. It felt unfamiliar in his throat. "Since tonight, I guess."

They walked toward Dean's car. The orange neon flickered behind them, casting two long shadows that stretched across the empty parking lot, almost touching.