Currents

The pool was empty at 2 AM, which was exactly why Maya chose it. The water lay still and black, reflecting nothing—not the moon, not her, certainly not the disaster of the dinner party she'd just escaped.

She slipped into the water, swimming laps with aggressive precision. Each stroke was a rejection: of Mark's condescending toast, of his mother's probing questions about babies, of the way her own smile had begun to feel like a mask she couldn't remove.

The pool lights flickered.

Maya ignored them, pushing into another lap. But then it happened again—a stutter of darkness, followed by a flash so bright it turned the water silver. Lightning. Somewhere beyond the resort's manicured grounds, a storm was breaking.

She tread water, watching the sky. Another flash. This one closer.

"You're going to get yourself killed," a voice said from the pool deck.

Maya turned. Ethan stood there, barefoot in his tuxedo pants, carrying two halves of a papaya on a room service tray. The fruit's orange flesh glowed softly against the coming storm.

"That's the plan," she said.

Ethan set the tray down and sat on the edge, feet dangling in the water. He was Mark's best friend, the best man, the one who'd spent the whole evening watching Maya with an intensity that had nothing to do with politeness.

"Mark's looking for you," he said. "He thinks you're upset about the catering."

"I'm not."

"I know."

Thunder cracked directly overhead. Rain began to fall, warm and sudden, flattening Maya's hair against her skull.

Ethan didn't move. "We met at a wedding, you know. Mark and I. Drunk as hell, swimming in a pool just like this one. He saved me from drowning, or so he says."

"Did he?"

"No. I was fine. But he needed to be the hero. That's his thing." Ethan slid into the water, fully clothed, and began swimming lazy circles around her. "What's yours?"

"What's my what?"

"Your thing. The story you tell about yourself."

Maya thought about the papaya sitting on the deck, how she'd never told anyone that she hated its texture, that she'd eaten it every morning for three years because Mark said it was her favorite. She thought about the job she'd left, the dreams she'd postponed, the person she used to be before she became someone's wife.

"I don't have one anymore," she said.

Ethan stopped swimming. The lightning flashed again, illuminating his face—not with pity, but with recognition. Something in Maya's chest tightened, sharp and terrifying as electricity.

"Then make one," he said.

Maya looked at the papaya, at the storm-darkened sky, at the man in the water who was watching her as if she were something worth seeing.

She began to swim, not away from the edge, but toward it.