Chlorine and Regret

The apartment complex pool sat empty at 2 AM, its surface still except for the occasional ripple from the wind. Elena sat on the edge, legs submerged in water that felt too warm, too artificial. She'd been coming here every night since Marcus left three weeks ago.

Their cat, Buster, had chosen Marcus in the divorce—not that anyone could legally own a creature with that much contempt for humanity. Buster now lived in Marcus's sleek downtown apartment, probably judging his new collection of mid-century modern furniture. Elena kept the dog, a depressed golden retriever named Wednesday who spent most days staring at the wall where Buster used to sleep.

"They're like a goddamn multivitamin for your emotional wounds," her sister had said during her brief, ineffective attempt at helpfulness. "Pets. They heal everything."

Elena snorted into the darkness, remembering the goldfish they'd bought together during what she now thought of as the Desperate Year—that stretch of time when they'd tried everything to save their marriage: couples therapy, weekend retreats, even a terrifyingly honest conversation about whether they still loved each other. The fish had lasted exactly four days before Marcus found it floating.

"It's just a fish," he'd said, and she'd realized he wasn't talking about the fish at all.

Wednesday whimpered from her spot on the lounge chair, probably dreaming of Buster. Elena's phone buzzed—Marcus, asking if she wanted the rest of his things or if he should donate them. She stared at the screen until it went dark, then slipped into the pool fully clothed.

The water engulfed her, and for a moment she considered staying under, letting the chlorine burn her lungs like it had burned her eyes that summer they'd first met at a party like this one. But she surfaced, gasping, and climbed out dripping and shivering.

Wednesday thumped her tail once, then went back to sleep. Elena wrapped herself in a towel and watched the sky lighten, thinking about how some things float and some things sink, and how you never really know which you are until the water lets go.