Electric Memory

The infinity pool at the boutique hotel reflected nothing but gathering clouds as Elena sat on the edge, legs submerged in water grown cold. Her iPhone vibrated against the ceramic tiles—Mark's third missed call in an hour. She let it ring, watching the ripples distort her reflection.

A flash of lightning fractured the sky. The storm that had threatened all evening was finally breaking.

"He's not coming, is he?"

Elena jumped. The older woman in the neighboring chaise had lowered her book. A golden retriever slept at her feet, nose twitching.

"No," Elena said. "I suppose he's not."

"Neither will mine." The woman gestured to an empty chair with her wine glass. "Sit. Storm's better with company."

Elena hesitated, then gathered her phone and towel. "I'm Sarah, by the way."

"Elena."

The dog lifted its head, thumped its tail once, and returned to dreams.

"The marriage counseling didn't take?" Sarah asked, not unkindly.

"He didn't want to try. Said he'd fallen out of love somewhere around the time I got promoted and he didn't." Elena swiped through old photos on her phone. "But you know what kills me? He still has all these pictures. Us at the Grand Canyon. Us adopting this dog we had to return when we moved. Like he's keeping evidence of a person he claims doesn't exist anymore."

"Memory's a curse," Sarah said. "My husband died two years ago. I still check his old voicemail just to hear his voice. Sometimes I call my own phone from his iPhone just so it looks like he's trying to reach me. Pathetic, isn't it?"

Lightning struck closer, thunder following seconds behind. The pool's surface trembled.

"It's not pathetic," Elena said. "It's hope."

"No. It's refusal." Sarah set down her glass. "The problem with iPhones, with all this technology—we can preserve everything exactly as it was. But people change. That's the point."

Elena looked at Mark's text messages. The last ones were administrative: "Pick up dry cleaning," "Did you call the plumber?" Where had the man who once wrote her three-page love letters gone?

"You should answer him," Sarah said.

"Why? So he can tell me in person?"

"So you can tell him whatever you need to say." Sarah smiled sadly. "Or maybe just to ask if he still has that dog's old leash in his garage. Because I'll bet he does."

Elena pressed the phone to her ear. It rang twice.

"I'm coming home," she said when he answered. "We need to talk. Really talk."

"I'm already in the driveway," Mark said. "I never left."

The dog woke and barked at something only it could hear. Behind them, the rain began to fall, washing the day's heat from the air, from the pool, from the silence between them.