Dead Pixels in the Water

Margaret stood at the edge of the apartment complex pool at 11 PM, her husband's iPhone glowing in her hand. The water was still, glass-black under the security lights. She'd gone out for cigarettes and come back to find him asleep, his phone buzzing with messages that made no sense until she looked.

From someone named Lena: *still thinking about your hair, the way it curls behind your ears*

Margaret's own hair had been falling out for months — stress, the doctor said, though they both knew it was the quiet between them, the erosion that happens when two people stop trying. She ran her fingers through what remained, thin and dry, wondering what this Lena saw that Richard had stopped seeing years ago.

The phone buzzed again. *can you sneak away tomorrow?*

She should be angry. She should wake him, scream, throw the phone into the pool where it would sink like their promises. Instead she felt something like relief, the clean sharp edge of certainty after years of blur. The unspoken things finally spoken.

Richard had been complaining about work for six months, coming home depleted, spending weekends at the gym. She'd assumed depression. Now she understood: he was spending his energy elsewhere, investing in someone new. Growing fresh hair for someone to run their fingers through.

She sat on the lounge chair, the vinyl cold against her thighs. The pool's surface reflected her phone's light in broken pieces, like an iPhone screen after it's been dropped.

She could wake him. They could fight. Or she could let it be, let him wake tomorrow and find his phone missing, let him wonder what she knows. Let the uncertainty eat him for once.

Margaret stood up and slipped the iPhone into her pocket. The water was still black and silent. She would sleep at her sister's tonight. In the morning, she would call a lawyer. For the first time in years, she knew exactly what she wanted.