Chlorine and Regret

The hotel pool was empty at 3 AM, which was exactly what Sarah needed. She'd slipped away from the conference reception, her corporate smile finally cracking after six hours of nodding at people whose names she'd already forgotten.

She sat on the edge, feet dangling in the chlorinated water, eating a room service salad she hadn't ordered. The spinach leaves were wilted, slick with too much dressing—much like her enthusiasm for this presentation tomorrow. She caught her reflection in the darkened glass doors and touched the gray streak that had appeared at her temple three months ago. James used to say it made her look distinguished. James also said he needed space to find himself.

An orange tabby cat appeared from nowhere, jumping onto the adjacent lounge chair with suspicious grace. It watched her with yellow eyes, tail twitching. Sarah tossed it a piece of grilled chicken. The cat ate it daintily, then licked its paw.

"You're judging me," she said to the cat. "I can feel it."

Her phone buzzed on the chair. James. Again.

She stared at the pool's surface, where underwater lights created rippling patterns against the blue tiles. She'd almost done it once—last winter, in the dark, fully clothed. But she'd remembered how cold the water would be, how impossible it would be to explain the wet clothes, the ruined hair.

The cat stood, stretched, and vanished into the shadows of the hotel garden.

Sarah finished her salad, stood up, and walked back to her room without checking her messages. Tomorrow she would give the presentation. Tomorrow she would file the divorce papers. Tonight, she would sleep. The pool remained still behind her, holding onto the light.