Chlorine and Regret

The rooftop pool at the Thompson Hotel was where executives went to drown their mistakes. I'd been coming here for three months—since the merger, since my promotion, since David moved out. The water didn't judge. The water didn't ask why I kept running the same laps, over and over, like I could outpace the hollow echo of our apartment.

I had just completed my fortieth lap when I saw the cat. A calico, perched on a lounge chair like she owned the place. She watched me with yellow eyes, tail twitching.

"You're new," I said, dripping onto the concrete. "Hotel doesn't allow pets."

The cat blinked.

"Figures. Nothing here follows rules anymore."

I towel-dried my hair—short now, pixie-cut, another post-David change he'd hated. Said I looked like a teenager. Good.

A man in a suit approached, carrying a baseball glove. Old leather, well-worn. He stopped at the lounge chair, scratched the cat's ears.

"She likes you," I said.

"She likes anyone who feeds her." He offered his hand. "Tom. From Accounting."

"Sarah. From the floor that used to have windows."

Tom laughed. "The merger. Right."

"She wasn't lying when she said this place has a pool."

"She wasn't lying when she said everyone here is running from something." Tom gestured with the glove. "My kid's team needs a coach. Nobody wants to volunteer. They're twelve, they swing like they're fighting off bees, but they're trying."

"I haven't played since college."

"Neither have they."

The cat jumped down, wound between my ankles, purring like a small engine.

"Sarah from the floor with no windows," Tom said. "Stop swimming in circles. Come help them run the bases."

I looked at the glove. At the cat. At Tom, who didn't know me but saw me anyway.

"My ex-husband said I was too competitive," I said.

"Perfect," Tom said. "See you Saturday."

He walked away, the cat following at his heels like she'd always been his. I stood there by the pool, dripping and breathless, for the first time in three months not planning another lap.