Dead Man Swimming
The pool was always empty at 5 AM. That was the point.
Marcus dragged himself there each morning, a corporate **zombie** running on caffeine and resentment. Forty-two years old and he already felt like his life had happened to someone else—someone who maybe made different choices, who didn't trade his soul for a corner office and a cardiac episode waiting to happen.
The water was still dark when he dove in. **Swimming** laps was the only time his brain shut up. No emails. No performance reviews. No marriage that had become two people sleeping in the same bed, oceans apart.
On the seventh lap, he saw her.
She sat at the edge of the pool, legs in the water, wearing a oversized sun **hat** indoors like she'd given up on giving a damn. She was eating an **orange**, peeling it with deliberate slowness, watching him with eyes that had seen too much and believed in nothing.
Marcus stopped swimming, treaded water. "You're here early."
"Couldn't sleep." She tore off a section of orange. "My husband left. Started packing at midnight. By 3 AM, I realized I wasn't sad—I was just wondering who gets the good blender."
Marcus laughed, and the sound surprised him. "I'm Marcus. I feel like I've been dead since 2019."
"Elena. Welcome to the club. We don't have meetings."
She tossed him a piece of orange. He caught it, treaded water with one hand, ate it with the other. The juice burned—sharp, bright, alive.
"You know what's funny?" Elena said, staring at the ceiling's harsh fluorescent lights. "I always thought by this age I'd have it figured out. Instead, I'm just a better liar."
Marcus swam to the edge. "My wife asked me yesterday if I was happy. I paused too long."
"That's the thing about zombies," Elena said. "We don't know we're dead until someone asks."
The sun began to rise through the skylight, painting the pool in gold and ash. For a moment, neither of them spoke.
"Same time tomorrow?" Marcus asked.
Elena adjusted her ridiculous hat. A real smile this time—small, broken, genuine.
"I'll bring the oranges."