Dead Man's Float

Marcus floated in the hotel pool at 2 AM, the only time the water wasn't choked with tourists. His marriage had become a zombie relationship — both of them still moving through the motions, eating dinner, watching television, sleeping back-to-back, but something essential had died years ago. Neither one had the courage to admit it, let alone do something about it.

The corporate structure at his job was a pyramid scheme of the soul: entry-level employees crushed under middle management, crushed under executives, each level promising rewards that never materialized. His boss, Bear — a man so nicknamed because of his hulking frame and predatory demeanor — had called Marcus into his office that afternoon.

"You're not hungry enough," Bear had said, leaning across his desk. "The ones who make it, they want it more."

Marcus had nodded, said all the right things, gone home, and told Sarah he needed to work late again. She'd nodded too, accustomed to his absence, accustomed to everything.

Now, suspended in the chlorinated water, Marcus realized the truth: he was exactly as hungry as he needed to be. Not hungry for success, not hungry for money, not hungry for anything they wanted him to want. Just hungry enough to keep floating, hungry enough to not sink.

He climbed out of the pool, dripping onto the concrete. The night air was cold against his skin. In the distance, a siren wailed — someone else's emergency, someone else's life falling apart. Marcus gathered his clothes and dressed in the dark.

Tomorrow he would go back to work. Tomorrow he would go home to Sarah. Tomorrow he would keep floating. The dead didn't feel the cold, after all. They just kept moving until someone finally had the decency to bury them.