Deep Waters

I slip into the pool, the cool water enveloping me like a second skin. Morning swims have become my ritual—forty-five minutes of rhythmic strokes, the only time my mind goes quiet. My iPhone sits on the deck, its screen dark, a silent sentinel that hasn't buzzed with his name in three weeks.

A fox appears at the edge of the property, its russet coat bright against the morning fog. I tread water, watching it watch me. David used to call me his clever fox, always one step ahead, always knowing when to cut my losses. Now I'm just treading water, literally and figuratively.

The vitamin bottle sits on my bathroom counter—D3 for mood, B-complex for energy, a pharmacological attempt to regulate emotions that refused to be regulated. I swallow them each morning with shaking hands, waiting for them to kick in, to make me feel like myself again.

I remember our last conversation in this pool. "I can't bear this anymore," he'd said, water dripping from his hair, making patterns on the deck. "You're always swimming away from me." I'd laughed then, bitter and sharp. "Maybe you just don't know how to swim with me."

The fox dips its head, perhaps catching the scent of something in the tall grass, then disappears into the woods. I push off the wall, starting my laps again, counting strokes like prayers. One, two, three, breathe. Four, five, six, breathe.

My phone lights up. Not him. Never him anymore. Just a work notification, a reminder that life continues in its mundane rhythm. I'll finish my swim, take my vitamins, and learn to bear this new solitude with grace. I'm learning to swim in deep waters alone.