Chlorine and Regrets

Margaret sat alone at the resort pool, nursing a papaya enzyme cooler that promised to cure what ailed her. At 47, she'd discover that the only thing enzymes cured was heartburn, but she ordered them anyway. A memory claw pattern. And the papaya, god, the papaya—it was William who'd first introduced her to it on their honeymoon in Kauai. "Exotic," he'd called it, as if he'd discovered it himself.

She checked her phone again. No missed calls. The vitamin D supplements in her beach bag sat untouched—she kept forgetting them, just as she kept forgetting to leave him.

A woman walked past with a retriever on a flexible leash. The dog stopped, sniffed Margaret's chair with polite interest. She found herself scratching behind its ears, the coarse hair familiar under her fingers. It had been six months since she'd had to put down Buster, and the grief still sometimes knocked the wind out of her when she least expected it.

"He's friendly," the woman said, smiling.

"So was mine," Margaret said, and immediately hated how pathetic it sounded.

Her phone finally chimed. William, canceling dinner again. "Emergency at the hospital."

Margaret deleted the message without responding and signaled the waiter for another papaya cooler. The chlorine stung her eyes as she slipped into the pool, letting the water close over her head. For a moment, everything was muffled and blue and weightless. Then she surfaced, gasping, and decided that tomorrow, finally, she would call the divorce lawyer. The dog would have approved.