Dissolving

The chlorine stung my eyes, but I kept them open, watching Marcus through the distorted lens of the hotel pool. He stood near the cabana, surrounded by other VitaminWorld distributors in their matching polo shirts, laughing at something I couldn't hear. His laugh—that practiced, salesman laugh that had won me over seven years ago—now sounded like grinding glass.

I floated on my back, staring up at the perfect blue sky. The third-round IVF had failed two days ago. The fertility doctor had prescribed prenatal **vitamin** complexes, folic acid, CoQ10—a cocktail of hope in capsule form. Marcus's response: "Maybe you should try selling supplements. The discount would help."

The water lapped against my skin, cool and indifferent. I'd been **swimming** laps every morning since the diagnosis, trying to sweat out the despair, trying to make my body into something that worked properly. Something that could give him what he really wanted: not a wife, but a product.

"Sarah!" Marcus called from the pool's edge. "Come meet Dr. Evans. He's got a new anti-aging line that's blowing up in the Midwest."

I tread water for a moment, considering letting myself sink. The bottom wasn't that far down. But I kicked toward the surface instead, breaking through with a gasp. Marcus's face was expectant, hungry—always hungry for the next big thing, the next promotion, the next version of us that would finally be enough.

"In a minute," I said, and something in my voice must have changed because his smile faltered. "I'm just going to swim a little longer."

I turned away from him and struck out for the deep end, each stroke a small rebellion. The water held me, asked nothing, promised nothing. Behind me, the VitaminWorld convention continued its steady hum of optimism and commerce, but I was already somewhere else, already dissolved, already beginning the long work of becoming someone new.