Dead Man Swimming

The hotel pool was empty at 11 PM, which was exactly what Marcus needed. He'd spent the entire day in meetings, nodding while his boss droned on about 'synergy' and 'paradigm shifts' — pure bull, every word of it, but Marcus had learned long ago that survival meant appearing interested.

He slipped into the water, the chlorine stinging his eyes, and began swimming laps. Back and forth, counting strokes, trying to drown out the phantom buzz of his iPhone on the pool deck. Elena had texted three times today. He hadn't responded. What could he say? That he felt like a zombie going through the motions of a life he'd stopped recognizing three years ago?

The water was his only refuge. Here, in the silence between strokes, he could admit things he couldn't say aloud: that he loved Elena but didn't know how to be the husband she needed anymore. That the promotion he'd just received felt less like victory and more like a longer sentence.

His phone lit up again. Another notification. Probably work, demanding something that could wait until morning. Marcus ignored it, pushing off the pool wall, slicing through the water, wishing he could keep swimming forever, just disappear beneath the surface and never have to decide whether to surface.

Tomorrow he'd go home. Tomorrow he'd try again. But tonight, in the dark water, he allowed himself the luxury of being nothing at all — just a body in motion, suspended between who he was and who he'd become.