Laps Until Dawn

The pool was empty at 2 AM, which is exactly what Elena needed. Sixty laps of silence, the only sound her own breathing and the water cutting past her ears. She'd discovered midnight swimming three months ago, after finding the burner phone in Marc's coat pocket.

She'd married him eight years ago in a June garden ceremony. They'd adopted Luna—a sleek gray cat—with the same optimism they'd bought their house. Now Marc was sleeping in their guest room, or maybe not sleeping at all. Elena didn't ask anymore.

Her arms cut through the water, a rhythm that had become her meditation. Fifty-one, fifty-two. In the locker room earlier, her coworker Sarah had mentioned the new regional director, some aggressive corporate climber who'd already fired three people. "A real shark," Sarah had called him. Elena had just nodded.

Fifty-seven, fifty-eight. She used to love their house, the way Luna would drape herself over the back of the sofa like gray smoke. Now the cat seemed to stare at her with judgment, as if animals could sense the unraveling before humans admitted it.

Sixty.

Elena pulled herself from the pool, water streaming from her skin. Tomorrow she'd tell Marc she wanted a divorce. Maybe she'd sell the house. She'd been thinking about getting a dog—something that needed walks, forced her into the world, demanded loyalty she couldn't seem to find anywhere else.

She dried off in the dim locker room light. Her phone showed a text from Marc: "Can we talk?"

Elena deleted it without reading the rest. Some things were better said in daylight. Or not at all.