Heavy Things We Carry

Margaret stood by the edge of the apartment complex pool, clutching her iPhone like a lifeline. The screen glowed with a message she'd been waiting three hours to reply to: *I think we should see other people.*

Behind her, the dinner party continued. Someone had made spinach lasagna—her recipe, the one she'd taught Sarah before things between them had grown complicated. Now Sarah was laughing at something Brad said, that rich, easy laugh Margaret had fallen in love with two years ago.

She watched a group of kids playing baseball in the park across the street. Their father kept calling them in for dinner, and they kept ignoring him, caught up in the infinite summer of childhood. Margaret remembered being that age, believing time stretched forever, that the people you loved would always be there.

The pool lights flickered on, turning the water an artificial blue. She remembered the night she and Sarah had swum here at midnight, drunk on cheap wine and possibility, Sarah's skin slippery and cool against hers, the city humming around them like a secret they shared.

Now that secret had a name: Brad.

Her iPhone buzzed again. Sarah, this time: *You okay? You've been out there a while.*

Margaret typed and deleted three responses. Finally, she wrote: *Just thinking.*

She set the phone on the poolside table and watched the baseball game end. The father finally managed to round up his children, their bats and gloves slung over small shoulders, the日常 ritual of dusk and dinner pulling them home.

Some endings came naturally. Others you had to choose.

Margaret picked up her iPhone, opened the message again, and began to type: *I think you should see other people too.*

She hovered over send, watching the pool lights ripple across the water's surface, and pressed the screen. Then she walked back toward the apartment, toward the spinach lasagna and the woman she used to love, carrying the heavy things we learn to live with.