Goldfish at the Holiday Inn

The pool was empty at 2 AM, the water still as glass. David sat on the edge, legs submerged, the chlorine stinging the fresh cuts on his shins. He'd stopped noticing the smell years ago — it was just the scent of not being home.

Three days now since Sarah's text: *Need space. Don't wait up.* The kind of message that ends conversations that began two decades ago in a college dive bar. He'd come here instead of going to their empty house. The Holiday Inn Express had a vending machine, thin walls, and this fucking pool.

He thought about their son, Max, eight years old and obsessed with baseball. Last weekend, David had pitched to him in the backyard until his shoulder burned. Max had finally connected, the ball arcing into the neighbor's yard, both of them screaming like they'd won the World Series. *That's what it feels like,* David had said, *to get it exactly right.* Max had looked at him like he'd handed him the moon.

Now Max was at Sarah's sister's place, probably asking when Daddy was coming to pick him up. David had lied and said Mommy was working late.

A single goldfish swam in the lobby aquarium, orange against the fake coral, circling endlessly. David had stood there for twenty minutes yesterday watching it, mesmerized by its stupidity. It had maybe three seconds of memory, hitting the glass, forgetting, hitting it again. He'd felt a strange kinship. How many times had he hit the same wall with Sarah?

He lowered himself into the water, began swimming laps. Not proper laps — he didn't have the energy for form. Just propelling himself forward, face down, the water drowning out everything. The rhythmic splashing was like a baseball card in bicycle spokes, that sound from childhood that meant everything was fine because you were young enough to make noise without apology.

When he pulled himself out, dripping and exhausted, his phone lay on the deck chair where he'd left it. No new messages. The goldfish was probably still circling its glass prison. Max was probably asleep in an unfamiliar bed. And somewhere, Sarah was deciding whether to circle back or keep swimming forward into whatever came next.

David sat on the edge again, legs dangling, watching the water settle. He'd stay here until dawn. Then he'd figure out what to tell Max about baseball, about marriage, about how sometimes you get it exactly right and it still isn't enough.