Dead Ringer at Sunset

The pool shimmered like liquid mercury under the July twilight, the water's surface broken only by the solitary figure swimming laps with rhythmic desperation. Lisa sat at the edge, her legs dangling in the warm water, watching Mark cut through the water again and again. Each stroke carried something like punishment.

Her iphone buzzed against the concrete — the fourth notification from David in twenty minutes. She didn't need to look. The team was imploding at the office, the merger falling apart, and David was drowning in paperwork he'd begged her to handle before she'd walked away from it all. Three weeks ago, she'd have been right there beside him, orchestrating the cleanup while Mark cooked dinner and pretended not to notice the empty chairs at their table.

"You're going to miss him," Mark said, surfacing beside her, slicking wet hair from his forehead. "I can see it in your face. You're already composing the apology email."

"I'm not," she lied, but her thumb hovered over the screen anyway. The baseball game drifted from the patio speakers, the announcer's voice swelling around them. They'd come here to escape — this empty house with its perfect pool belonged to Mark's recently departed boss, who'd left behind everything but his cat. The orange tom had been watching them from the patio chairs for an hour, its yellow eyes unblinking, like it knew something they didn't.

"David doesn't understand why you'd choose... whatever this is," Mark said quietly, staring at the water. "Neither do I, honestly."

Lisa's thumb pressed the screen. The notifications vanished into nothingness. "Maybe that's the point," she said, and slid into the water beside him. The cat turned its back, unimpressed by yet another human mistake, as the baseball crowd roared for someone else's victory.