Concrete Moonlight

The water in the pool had gone still and glass-like, catching the reflection of the orange umbrella she'd left tilted against the patio chair. Three hours ago, they'd been laughing here, Margot in that yellow swimsuit that made her look like summer itself. Now she was probably halfway to her sister's place in Seattle, and he was alone with a half-empty whiskey glass and the crushing weight of words spoken in anger.

He'd told her he didn't want children. That was the thing — the actual, terrible thing that had been lurking beneath everything for months, surfacing finally in the guise of a discussion about her sister's new baby. Margot had cried quietly, shoulders shaking, then packed her bag with a methodical calm that scared him more than screaming would have.

The whiskey burned going down. He thought about the way she'd looked in hospital lighting, that time she'd broken her arm falling off his balcony. How she'd made jokes about her clumsiness while he'd felt his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. That was two years ago. Back when they still believed love was enough to bridge every gap, every difference, every slowly widening fracture.

He dipped his fingers in the pool. The water was cold, shocking against the July heat. An orange rolled across the patio deck — must have fallen from the fruit bowl earlier. It came to rest against his bare foot, vivid and bright against the gray concrete.

He picked it up and peeled it slowly, letting the citrus scent cut through the whiskey smell. The sections were perfect, jewel-like. He ate three, then four, then threw the rest into the pool where they floated like small planets.

"You're such a coward," she'd said, voice breaking. Not about the baby thing — about why he'd really waited so long to tell her. Because he'd known. He'd always known. And he'd let her believe anyway, because wanting her was easier than being honest.

The orange sections bobbed in the water, catching moonlight. He should call her. Should apologize for the timing if not the truth. Should say something — anything — that wasn't silence.

Instead he finished his drink and watched the pool's surface ripple in the wind, thinking how some things, once said, can never be unsaid. How the truth doesn't set you free. It just leaves you alone with water and whiskey and the stubborn, stupid hope that she might someday forgive you for being human after all.