Corners of the Deep End

Margaret stood at the edge of the apartment complex's swimming pool at midnight, the water's surface reflecting the orange glow of streetlamps like broken amber. She'd left Tom three hours ago—mid-sentence, mid-argument, mid-life. He'd called her selfish for wanting to leave the firm. The firm that had required seven-day weeks, required her to be the bull in the china shop of corporate acquisitions, required she sacrifice everything at the altar of partnership.

Now she was fifty-three, with nothing to show for it but a corner office and a recurring ulcer.

A movement near the pool's filter caught her eye. A cat—scrawny, missing half an ear, its fur the color of dirty dishwater—sat watching her. Unafraid. Margaret had lived in this building for six years and never noticed it before. How much else had she missed?

"You must be hungry," she said aloud, the sound of her own voice startling her. She still had a bag of takeout from dinner. She opened it, placed some noodles on the concrete.

The cat approached cautiously, then ate with ferocious intensity. Margaret lowered herself to the pool deck, her expensive silk trousers soaking up chlorinated water. She didn't care.

"I used to be like you," she whispered to the cat. "Before I forgot how to hunger."

Her phone buzzed. Tom. Again. Let him rant. Let him rage about the clients she'd abandon, the deals left in limbo. Let him be the bull now—charge at windmills, gore anyone who stood between him and his precious targets.

The cat finished eating and sat, cleaning its face with deliberate, rhythmic strokes. Then it turned and walked away without looking back. No gratitude. No performance. Just survival.

Margaret realized she was crying, silent tears that disappeared into the fabric of her blouse. Somewhere between the mortgage payments and the mergers, between the mergers and the martinis, she'd forgotten that some things—maybe the only things—required no justification at all.

She stood, her joints popping, and stripped down to her underwear. She dove into the pool, the water shocking her skin. She'd cancelled her dinner reservation for tomorrow. She'd call her mother in the morning. She'd resign Monday.

Tonight, she would just swim.