Chlorine and Regrets

The pool at the Ritz-Carlton was eerily empty for a Tuesday afternoon. Elena lay on a chaise lounge, sunglasses hiding eyes that had seen too much of everything and not enough of anything. She swallowed another vitamin D supplement—a pathetic gesture toward health when her real deficiencies couldn't be fixed with gel capsules.

Marcus returned from his morning run, sweat tracing paths down his temples. At forty-two, he still ran every day, chasing an endorphin dream that somehow always stayed just ahead of him. He'd been running for five years now—since the miscarriage, since his promotion, since they stopped really talking.

"You're dripping," she said.

"Sorry." He grabbed a towel, vigorous movements that spoke of avoidance. "Thought you might want to grab lunch. The concierge mentioned—"

"I'm not hungry."

"Elena."

"What, Marcus? What do you want from me?"

He sat on the edge of her lounge, and for a moment she saw the man she'd married—the one who could make her laugh until her ribs ached, who held her through nights when she thought she might dissolve from grief. But that version of him had been slowly eroding, replaced by this successful stranger with his CrossFit membership and his vitamin regimen and his desperate need to keep moving.

"I'm tired of this," he said quietly. "Of the pool. Of the resorts. Of the bullshit."

She sat up, knocked sunglasses askew. The word hung between them—bullshit. A profane prayer for a dead marriage.

"Then stop running," she said. "For once in your life, just stand still and let yourself feel it."

The pool's surface shimmered, blue and artificial as their life had become. A bird dove toward the water, pulled up at the last second.

Marcus took her hand. His palm was calloused from gym weights, warm and utterly familiar. "I don't know how to be still anymore, El. I've forgotten how."

"We'll learn," she said, though she didn't believe it. Some things, once broken, couldn't be fixed with vitamins or vacation pools or desperate declarations. Some loves just ran their course.

She squeezed his hand anyway. Some bullheaded hope remained, stupid and stubborn as a heart that kept beating against all odds.