Drowning in Shallows

The cat watched from the balcony railing, its amber eyes tracking her movements with clinical detachment. Elena sat on the edge of the rooftop pool, legs submerged in water that felt too warm, too artificial for midnight. She'd been coming here every night since Mark left, each time staying longer, swimming deeper into the hollow ache that lived in her chest.

Below, the city hummed with indifferent energy. Somewhere, a cable snapped in the wind with a sound like a whip crack—probably another line downed by the storm that had torn through three days ago. The same storm they'd fought through, or rather, the storm during which Mark had finally stopped pretending there was anything left to fight for.

"I'm tired of swimming in circles, El. I'm thirty-five and I don't know what I'm doing anymore."

His words had been so measured, so calm, that they'd barely registered at first. Only later did she understand: he wasn't leaving her. He was leaving himself.

She reached for the papaya she'd brought up from the kitchen—soft, overwhelmingly sweet, the kind of exotic luxury they'd once indulged in during weekend trips to the market, pretending their lives were more adventurous than they really were. Now the fruit sat uneaten in her palm, becoming warm and mushy in the humid air.

A splash from the far end of the pool broke her thoughts. A man emerged from the water, slicking back dark hair shot through with silver. He looked like he'd been swimming for hours—exhausted but purposeful, the way some people treated exercise like penance.

"Hope I didn't disturb you," he said, hoisting himself onto the deck with an ease that made his wet body seem weightless. "I come here every night. Helps clear my head."

Elena nodded, not trusting her voice. The cat had disappeared, abandoning its vigil.

"My wife used to love this pool," the man continued, wringing out his shirt. "Before she got sick. She said the water made her feel like she could float away from everything."

He looked at Elena then, really looked at her, and she understood he saw someone else who was learning how to float away from everything. The papaya in her hand felt suddenly heavy, suddenly absurd.

"I'm sorry," she said, and meant it.

"Yeah." He smiled faintly. "Me too."

They sat in companionable silence as the city burned electricity below, both swimming in the same shallow darkness, tethered to earth by nothing more substantial than grief and the weight of things left unsaid.