Learning to Drown

The palm fronds above us rustled in the Hawaiian wind, a sound like dry applause. Marcus had booked this trip without asking me, assuming another resort vacation could patch what was already shredded beyond repair.

"You've been swimming in that ocean for an hour," he said from the lounge chair, not looking up from his phone.

I hadn't. I'd been standing waist-deep in the water, letting the salt wash over me, thinking about how we'd stopped speaking anything but logistics months ago. When was the last time he'd touched me without it leading perfunctorily to sex?

"The water's nice," I said, which was a lie. It was tepid, like us.

That evening, we met another couple at the resort bar. Karen and David, celebrating their thirtieth anniversary. David slipped his arm around Karen's waist as naturally as breathing, his palm resting against her hip like he'd forgotten it was there. She leaned into him, that unconscious trust of people who hadn't already quietly decided to leave.

"What's your secret?" Marcus asked, and I wanted to laugh at his desperation.

"Never go to bed angry," Karen said, and David squeezed her shoulder.

"Or," David added, "learn that sometimes you're both drowning, and you have to take turns swimming for both of you."

Later, in our room, Marcus finally turned off his phone. He reached for me, his palm hesitating at my waist, then retracting. "I know you're unhappy, Sarah."

"We're unhappy," I corrected. "There's a difference."

"I can do better."

"I don't want better," I said, surprising myself. "I want something real. And I think maybe we never had that."

Outside, the wind picked up, fronds clattering against our balcony. Down by the shore, the water kept moving with that terrifying persistence of things that will outlast you.

"I'm not learning to swim anymore," I said. "I'm tired of kicking just to stay in place."

Marcus nodded, something like relief in his eyes. "So what now?"

"Now we stop pretending."