Currents

The pool at the Hotel Valencia had swallowed three people in ten years, or so the rumors went. Elena didn't believe in curses, but she did believe in patterns, and she'd been studying them for six months now—since David left, since she started noticing how water held things differently than air did.

She sat at the edge, legs submerged to the calves, nursing an old fashioned she'd ordered because David used to drink them. The orange peel garnish had curled against the glass like something trying to escape.

"Mind if I join?"

Marcus from accounting. Of course. He'd been orbiting her at the conference like a satellite, his dark hair slick with product, his smile wearing thin at the edges. He sat too close, his shoulder brushing hers, the heat of him suddenly invasive.

"I'm actually—"

"The storm's coming in," he said, cutting her off. "Looks impressive."

He was right. Lightning had begun fracturing the sky beyond the pool's glass ceiling, violet-white fissures that made the water's surface shudder with reflected violence. Elena felt something tighten in her chest—the old electric current that had drawn her to David initially, that terrible moment when attraction feels like destiny.

Marcus placed his hand on her knee, just below the waterline. His fingers were warm, knowing. "Your wife," Elena said, not moving.

"Separated. Three months."

The lightning struck closer, and for a second Elena saw it all again: David's mouth, the hotel pool in Barcelona, how she'd mistaken corrosion for chemistry. How she'd spent years trying to believe that men who drifted toward you like debris were somehow capable of being anchors.

She stood up, water dripping down her legs, and walked away from the warmth, away from the thing that wanted to consume her. Behind her, Marcus called her name once, then gave up.

Outside, the real storm broke. Elena tilted her head back and let rain wash away the chlorine smell, already mourning the next time she'd want to drown in someone anyway.