Chlorine and Regret

The pool was empty at 2 AM, exactly how Marcus needed it. He slipped through the gate of the Palm Vista Resort, his **vitamin** D supplements burning a hole in his pocket—a flimsy excuse for why he was out, should his wife ask. Not that she would. Sarah had stopped asking questions months ago.

The water was still, glass-like under the moonlight. Marcus stripped to his boxers and slid in, the sudden cold shocking his skin. He'd never actually enjoyed **swimming**, but Elena did. She loved the water, loved how it made her feel weightless, how it washed away the evidence of their sins.

His phone buzzed on the patio table. Marcus ignored it, treading water in the deep end. He knew who it was. Elena's **dog**, a neurotic terrier she'd inherited after her mother died, had been sick all week. She'd been crying about it over drinks yesterday, mascara streaking her face like war paint. Marcus had held her, feeling absolutely nothing.

The pills in his pocket were disintegrating. He'd bought them on impulse—some wellness supplement that promised to fix everything: fatigue, low libido, existential dread. The clerk had raised an eyebrow when he'd grabbed three bottles.

"It's for my **dog**," Marcus had said. "Joint health."

What a lie. What a perfectly mundane lie.

He swam to the shallow end, where the pool lights turned the water a sickly blue. This affair had seemed so simple six months ago. Elena was funny, beautiful, conveniently married to a man who traveled constantly. But somewhere between hotel rooms and secret swims, Marcus had forgotten what he was supposed to be getting out of it.

His wife Sarah probably suspected. She'd started taking **vitamin** C megadoses, claimed it was for stress. She left the bottles on the counter like accusations. Marcus stopped touching them.

Tonight, Elena hadn't shown. Her text had been brief: can't make it. the dog died. marcus, i can't do this anymore.

He treaded water, watching the hotel rooms above. Somewhere in one of those rooms, Sarah was probably asleep, or maybe not. Maybe she was lying awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining where he was. Or maybe she was relieved to have the bed to herself.

Marcus climbed out of the **pool**, shivering. The night air felt wrong against his wet skin. He gathered his clothes, the ruined supplements, and let himself out through the gate.

In his car, he sat for a long time before starting the engine. His phone lit up again. Not Elena this time.

Sarah: Can we talk tomorrow?

Marcus typed and deleted three responses. Then he put the phone in the glove compartment and drove home toward whatever came next.