Dead Man's Float

The corporate retreat had been Mara's idea—a desperate bid to resuscitate their marriage before the final flatline. Now she floated on her back in the hotel pool at midnight, while Richard slept upstairs, exhausted from the "trust fall" exercises and mandatory karaoke.

The water cradled her, weightless and forgiving. She'd come to hate their life together—not Richard, but the life. The mortgage, the expectations, the way they moved through rooms like ghosts haunting their own existence. They'd become what Richard's therapist called "functional zombies"—organisms that performed the motions of living without any pulse behind the eyes.

She remembered loving him once. Really loving him. Not just the companionable affection of shared habits and joint tax returns, but the sharp, terrifying love that made her chest ache. When had that dissolved? Somewhere between the promotion he didn't celebrate and the miscarriage they didn't discuss, the gradual erosion of two lives merging into one beige existence.

The pool lights cast rippling shadows across the concrete. In the distance, she could see other couples' balconies—dark rectangles where people slept or stared at phones or contemplated the same quiet exits she was considering. Not death. Just departure.

A splash at the other end. Another insomnia swimmer.

Mara treaded water, watching the figure emerge from the depths. A woman about her age, hair plastered to her skull, makeup streaked down both cheeks like something tragic and beautiful. They nodded at each other—two people who understood that sometimes you needed to submerge yourself to remember what it felt like to break the surface.

"My husband's a zombie too," the woman said softly, without introduction. "He doesn't know it yet."

Mara laughed, a sound that bubbled up like a spring finally released. "Mine either. They never do."

They swam in companionable silence for minutes, buoyed by water and solidarity. Then the woman climbed out, dripping and resolute.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," she said over her shoulder. "While he's at the keynote. Sometimes you have to amputate the limb to save the patient."

Mara watched her go. Then she submerged completely, holding her breath until her lungs burned, letting the water press in on all sides. When she finally broke the surface, gasping, she knew.

She climbed out of the pool, water streaming from her skin like the last traces of something she'd outgrown. Upstairs, Richard would wake to an empty bed and a note. Not about betrayal, but about resurrection.

Zombies, after all, were just people who'd forgotten they could die.