Drained

The pool sat like a raw wound in the backyard, its blue plaster cracked, a single palm frond ghosting across the empty deep end. Elena stood at the edge, barefoot, the concrete still holding yesterday's heat against her soles. Six months after Richard left, and this was the first time she'd stepped out here.

A metallic jingle broke the silence. Barnaby—Richard's dog, though he'd abandoned them both—limped toward her, his golden coat dull with age. The dog pressed his wet nose into her palm, seeking reassurance she couldn't give. She'd wanted to return him. Richard had said, keep him, I'm running to Seattle, starting over. As if a life could be shed like old skin.

"You're a terrible friend," Elena whispered to the empty pool, though she meant Richard. Or maybe herself. Their friendship—decades of dinner parties, shared vacations, knowing each other's secrets—had evaporated with a single confession: he'd been sleeping with her sister. The sister who now owned this house, who'd offered it at family rates because she "felt bad."

Bad didn't cover it.

Barnaby whined, nudging her hand harder. Elena sank to her knees, burying her fingers in his ruff. The dog smelled like cedar and loneliness. Outside, she could hear the neighborhood kids running home from school, their joy distant and foreign. She was forty-three, starting over in a house that smelled like another woman's betrayal.

The pool's drain gaped like a mouth. Elena wondered if you could truly drain something clean, or if the residue always remained—ghosts beneath the surface, waiting to surface when the water filled again. She stood, wiped her damp palms on her dress, and led Barnaby back toward the house. Some wounds you learned to live with. Others you simply learned not to touch.