Chlorine and Regret

Margaret sat at the edge of the hotel pool, legs submerged in water that smelled like chemical youth. Fifty-two years old and stilltaking her vitamin D supplements every morning, as if that single pill could hold back the avalanche of time.

"You're going to prune," David said, sliding onto the chaise beside hers. His hair was thinner than she remembered—the last time they'd shared a hotel room, seven years ago, when they were both still married to other people.

"Let them look," she said, but crossed her legs beneath the water's surface.

The pool was empty at 2 AM. The conference had ended hours ago. David's presentation on market saturation had been brilliant; her counterargument had been better. They'd been doing this dance since grad school—intellectual foreplay masquerading as professional rivalry.

"Your husband called," David said, studying the water's reflection. "During my talk."

Margaret's stomach dropped. "William never calls."

"He asked if I'd seen you. Said you weren't answering your cell."

She fished her phone from her robe pocket—dead battery. The universe's little joke.

"I told him you were probably networking," David continued. "I said you were always the smartest woman in the room."

"Lie," she said. "I was the second smartest."

He smiled, and for a moment she saw the boy he'd been at twenty-two, before life had carved lines around his eyes and vitamin deficiencies had become something they actually discussed.

"Do you ever think about that night?" David asked quietly. "The night we didn't—"

"Every day," she said.

The pool lights flickered. Tomorrow they'd fly home to their respective cities, their respective marriages, their respective lies. But tonight, in this chlorinated purgatory, Margaret could almost believe they were young again—before the vitamins and the mortgages and the slow, silent erosion of possibility.

She stood up, water cascading down her legs. "David?"

"Yes?"

"Your presentation missed the point entirely."

He laughed, and she saw that despite everything, despite the gray hair and the joint pain and the years of bad decisions, they were still themselves.

"I know," he said. "That's why I needed you here."

She stepped out of the pool, dripping and real, and didn't look back.