Dead Man Swimming

Elena stood in her kitchen at 11:43 PM, mechanically chewing cold spinach from the container while her reflection in the darkened window stared back—a hollow-eyed woman she barely recognized, moving through her life like a zombie in a B-movie, stumbling through scenes she hadn't chosen. The spinach tasted of regret and refrigerator burn.

"You're swimming in it again," Mark had said that morning, not looking up from his phone as he tied his tie. "That thing you do. Submerge yourself until you can't feel anything anymore."

She'd wanted to tell him about the dreams where she was underwater, weightless, watching her marriage dissolve like sugar in the dark. Instead she'd poured coffee and asked if he was working late again. He always was.

Buster—her elderly golden retriever, the only living thing that still greeted her with something resembling joy—nudged her hand with his wet nose. His upcoming surgery would cost three thousand dollars she didn't have. Mark thought they should put him down. "He's suffering, El. Be practical."

But practicality had killed something essential in her years ago, the same way it had killed the painter she'd been at twenty-five. Now she managed data for an insurance company, explaining to angry customers why their claims had been denied, the corporate Bullshit Machine grinding through her like grist.

Tomorrow she would do it. She would tell Mark she was leaving, take the severance package they'd offered last month, sell the wedding ring she hadn't worn in two years. Buster would live. She would find a way.

Elena scraped the last of the spinach into the trash, then opened the back door. The night air hit her skin, cool and decisive. She stepped onto the grass and exhaled, really exhaled, for the first time in years. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked—a sound like hope.