Chlorine and Regret

The pool water was too warm, like bathwater left to cool. Marcus floated on his back, staring at the ceiling where water stains mapped continents no one would ever visit. His body ached — forty-two now, and the running wasn't enough anymore. His knees clicked when he bent them, a reminder that time moved even when he stood still.

"You're going to turn into a prune," Elena called from the side. She sat in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, vitamin water in hand, the orange label bright against the muted blue of everything else.

Marcus treaded water. "Prunes have character."

"Prunes are old and wrinkled and sit in jars."

"Like my soul?"

"Like your actual ass if you stay in there another hour." She checked her watch — the expensive one he'd bought her five years ago, back when they were still something. Before the affair. Before the separation. Before they'd somehow circled back to being friends, though the word felt inadequate for what they'd become. Not quite lovers, not quite strangers. Something liminal and tender.

Her dog, Buster, slept at her feet. The golden retriever had been his idea, a ridiculous attempt to save their marriage with a puppy. Now the dog was seven, graying around the muzzle, and Marcus only saw him on Sundays. Buster's loyalty had always belonged to Elena anyway.

"Your mom called," Elena said, too casual. "She's worried about you."

"She's always worried." Marcus swam to the edge and rested his arms on the concrete. The chlorine smell was sharp, chemical, almost nostalgic now. "What did she say this time?"

"That you're not eating. That you're running too much. That she found those vitamin D supplements in your cabinet and read the back — said it says 'may cause suicidal thoughts' in the warnings."

Marcus laughed. "She googled the side effects?"

"She's your mother, Marcus. She worries."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine." Elena's voice softened. "You haven't been fine since the layoff."

The words hung between them, heavier than the water. He'd been a director at a tech firm — important meetings, quarterly goals, a salary that bought things he didn't need. Then the restructuring. Now he had time and a severance package and no idea who he was without the title.

"I signed up for a marathon," he said.

"Marcus."

"It gives me something."

"It gives you something to run from."

Buster lifted his head, thumped his tail once, and went back to sleep. The dog had never been much of a conversationalist.

"Get out of the pool," Elena said. "I made lasagna. Your mom's recipe."

Marcus pulled himself up, water streaming off his body. His knees popped. His shoulder twinged. Everything hurt, and everything was still somehow okay.

"Why are you so good to me?" he asked, dripping on the concrete.

Elena stood up, Buster rising with her. She didn't answer immediately. She just looked at him — really looked at him — in that way she had, like she was seeing everything he'd tried to hide.

"Because," she said finally, "sometimes the most terrible thing is watching someone you used to love learn how to be alone."

She turned toward the house, the dog following without a leash. Marcus watched her go, water still dripping from his fingertips, creating small rings on the dry concrete that expanded and disappeared, like ripples from a stone thrown into water — the evidence that something had happened, however briefly, before it was gone.