Goldfish at the Bottom of the Pool

Margaret stood at the edge of the hotel pool at 2 AM, her daughter's oversized beanie pulled low over her silver-streaked hair. In her fist: three white pills—a vitamin D supplement she'd been forgetting to take since Tom left.

She wasn't there to swim. Not really.

The pool lights flickered underwater, casting dancing shadows across the concrete. She'd spotted them earlier that evening during the company retreat's disastrous cocktail hour—dozens of goldfish darting through the chlorinated water, their orange scales catching the artificial light. Someone's idea of whimsy, she supposed. Probably Bradley, the new VP who used words like 'synergy' and 'thought leader' without irony.

She slipped off her slides and dipped one foot in. Cold.

'You're going in?'

Margaret jumped. Bradley stood five feet away, shirtless, holding a drink she suspected wasn't his first. He was younger than her—thirty-seven to her fifty-two—with the kind of confidence that came from never having failed at anything meaningful.

'Just thinking about it.' She gestured vaguely. 'Kind of late.'

'Best time for it.' He set his glass down on a lounger. 'No one watching. No performance reviews.' He cracked a smile that was probably meant to be charming. 'I saw you earlier. At the gala. You looked... somewhere else.'

Margaret's stomach tightened. She'd been thinking about Tom, about how twenty years of marriage could dissolve into something as insubstantial as smoke. About the voicemail she'd ignored that afternoon—her sister, saying their mother had fallen again.

She dropped the vitamin pills into her pocket. 'Sometimes somewhere else is exactly where you need to be.'

Bradley stepped closer, invading her space. 'Maybe I can help you get there.' His hand found her waist, presuming invitation.

Margaret stiffened. This was why she'd come here at 2 AM—to avoid exactly this. To avoid the predatory warmth of men who saw a woman alone and assumed availability.

She pulled away sharply, her beanie slipping. 'I have a daughter your age.'

'Not my point.' He reached for her again.

'No.' She shoved him back. Hard.

Bradley stumbled, his ankle catching on the raised tiles. He fell sideways into the pool with a tremendous splash, thrashing and gasping.

Margaret watched him flounder, watched the goldfish scatter like sparks from a fire. She waited until he found his footing, sputtering and humiliated, before speaking.

'The chlorine's strongest at night,' she said. 'Better rinse off before bed.'

She walked away, clutching the forgotten vitamins in her pocket, feeling lighter than she had in months. Behind her, Bradley continued swimming toward the ladder, while the goldfish circled in electric patterns beneath the surface, indifferent to the dramas of humans who forgot that they, too, were merely passing through.