Chlorine and Regret

The chlorine stung Eleanor's eyes as she emerged from the pool, her **swimming** routine the only thing keeping her tethered to sanity since the divorce. At forty-three, she'd learned that laps were cheaper than therapy and more effective than wine.

She caught her reflection in the gym mirror—her **hair**, once a rich auburn she'd actually paid attention to, now pulled back in a haphazard bun. Dark roots showed through. Since Mark left, she'd stopped caring about things that used to matter.

"Ellie?"

She turned too fast. David. Her ex-husband's best friend, standing there holding a **hat** she recognized immediately—Mark's lucky baseball cap from their honeymoon in Santa Barbara. The one David had given him.

"You left this at my place," David said, his voice careful. Controlled.

Eleanor wrapped herself tighter in her towel. "Why did you have Mark's hat?"

David's jaw worked. He looked at the floor, then anywhere but her eyes. The silence stretched, heavy with understanding.

"How long?" she asked, though she already knew. Six months of Mark's "business trips." Eight months of David's convenient availability when she needed someone to help move furniture. A year of her own willful blindness.

"Does it matter?" His voice cracked.

She remembered the dinner party last month—David watching her over his **spinach** salad while Mark texted under the table. The way David had brought her a **vitamin** supplement when she mentioned feeling run-down, his hand lingering on hers a moment too long. She'd thought he was just being kind.

"No," Eleanor said, realizing she didn't actually care anymore. The betrayal had happened so long ago that the wound had scarred over into something else—indifference, maybe. Or the exhausted clarity that came with knowing you'd survive anything.

She took the hat from his hand.

"Tell him you found it in a cab," she said, and walked toward the showers without looking back. Later, she'd throw it in a dumpster on 5th Street. But first, she'd finish her laps.