Orange Peels at the Bottom of the Pool

Maya stood at the edge of the community pool at 11 PM, the water still and black as obsidian. The lone security light cast everything in an sickly orange glow—the color of warning signs, of construction cones, of the cheap incandescent bulb in her mother's kitchen where she'd first learned that love could be a transaction.

She'd come here straight from the hospital, still wearing her scrubs. The shift had been brutal: a teenager who'd crashed his dirt bike, multiple surgeries, his mother weeping in the waiting room. Maya had held it together until she'd reached her car, then sobbed until her chest ached. Now she needed something—anything—to make her feel something else.

The pool was closed, but Maya knew the gate code. Her ex-husband had been the head of maintenance here before the divorce, before he'd traded her in for a twenty-five-year-old swim instructor who actually liked sports. That was the joke, wasn't it? Maya had spent seven years swimming through marriage counseling, infertility treatments, financial strain, only to be told she'd been doing it wrong the whole time. Meanwhile, he'd hit a home run on his first attempt at something new.

She stripped to her underwear and slipped into the water. It was shocking, bracing, and she began to swim laps with aggressive strokes. Back and forth, back and forth, until her muscles burned and her mind quieted. This was better than therapy. Better than the Xanax her doctor offered. This was almost religious.

When she finally stopped, gasping and trembling, she noticed them: orange peels scattered at the bottom of the pool, glowing like strange submerged flowers. Someone must have thrown them in—kids, probably. But they looked beautiful down there, suspended in the water, slowly decomposing. It felt like a sign, though Maya didn't believe in signs anymore.

She hauled herself out and sat on the concrete edge, dripping, wrapped in a towel she'd brought. In the distance, she could hear the crack of a baseball bat from the neighborhood park—late-night practice, maybe, or just some kids messing around. The sound carried her back to that summer after college when she'd played softball in a rec league, briefly and passionately, before quitting to study for the MCAT. Another road not taken.

Her phone buzzed. Her ex, asking if she could pick up their daughter from school tomorrow. He'd be busy with the new baby.

Maya typed a reply: Sure. Then she deleted it and typed: Of course.

Then she deleted that too and simply sent: OK.

She stood up, gathered her things, and looked back at the pool one last time. The orange peels were still down there, slowly falling apart in the chlorine. They'd be gone by morning. Everything would be gone by morning. That was the point, really. You just kept swimming until you didn't have to anymore.