Market Day Blues

Margaret stood at the edge of the pool, her swimsuit feeling tighter than it had six months ago. The aqua aerobics class had been cancelled again—third time this month. At fifty-two, she'd finally joined the gym after Arthur left, seeking something to fill the endless Tuesday evenings that now stretched before her like an unlit highway.

She'd planned to start swimming today. Instead, she found herself walking through the rain-soaked parking lot, clutching a soggy grocery bag, wondering when her life had become a series of cancelled plans and compromised dreams. The divorce papers had arrived yesterday. Arthur hadn't even fought for the house.

The bear market had taken most of their savings anyway. That's what he'd told her, as if losses on paper were the same as the hollow absence in their bed. She'd suspected someone else for months—the late nights, the sudden interest in cryptocurrency, the way he'd started dressing like a man half his age.

She dumped her groceries on the counter: wilted spinach, a loaf of bread, cheap wine. The spinach made her think of their second anniversary, when Arthur had cooked her dinner, burning everything except the salad. They'd eaten by candlelight, laughing so hard they'd cried. She couldn't remember the last time they'd laughed.

Her phone buzzed. Arthur, asking about the collectibles. She deleted the text without replying. Some things, she decided, she wouldn't bear anymore—not his debts, not his excuses, not the weight of carrying both their dreams alone.

Tomorrow, she'd go to the pool. Tomorrow, she'd start swimming laps until her arms ached and her thoughts quieted. Tonight, she'd eat the spinach, drink the wine, and sleep in the center of the bed for the first time in twenty-seven years.

The rain continued falling against her window, washing away the traces of another unlived life.