Chlorine Dreams

Maria perched on the edge of the pool, legs dangling in the cool blue water, strands of wet hair plastered against her neck like dark seaweed. The backyard party roared around her—laughter, clinking glasses, the splash of bodies breaking the surface. David stood by the tiki torches, iPhone clutched in his hand like a lifeline, thumb scrolling through something infinitely more interesting than her.

Three months ago, he'd looked at her like she was the only person in the room. Now, his eyes had that glassy, unfocused quality she associated with the undead. Relationship zombies—she'd read about them in some article. Bodies still moving, hearts still beating, but the person who lived inside had already departed.

She touched the silver locket at her throat, his anniversary gift, now feeling like a collar.

"Maria?" David's voice cut through her reverie. He'd finally pocketed the phone. "You okay? You've been sitting there forever."

She studied him across the pool, the water distorting his features. "Just thinking."

"About what?"

"About how we used to talk until dawn. About how you haven't asked me a real question in weeks." The words spilled out, chlorine and heartbreak mixing in her throat.

David rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture she used to find endearing. Now it just looked like exhaustion. "Work's been crazy, Mare. You know that."

"I know your iPhone knows everything about your day. I know your coworkers know what you had for lunch. I just don't know if you still love me."

The silence stretched between them, thicker than the humid summer air. Someone dove into the pool, sending ripples washing over Maria's legs.

"That's not fair," he said quietly.

"No," she stood up, water streaming down her thighs, "what's not fair is that I'm drowning right next to you and you're too busy scrolling to notice."

She walked past him toward the house, barefoot on concrete, and didn't look back. Some zombies, she realized, you couldn't save—you just had to learn to survive them.