Palm Shadows at Low Tide

Mara watches him from the beach, her husband of seven years moving through the waves like something that's forgotten how to swim. The palm tree behind her casts long shadows across the sand, reaching toward Richard as if trying to pull him under. He's been like a zombie since the layoffs—moving through their beach vacation on autopilot, eyes glazed over, answering emails on his iPhone even as the Caribbean laps at his waist.

"Richard," she calls, but he doesn't turn. Maybe he can't hear her over the waves. Or maybe he's chosen not to.

She remembers when they met at that corporate baseball game—he'd caught a foul ball and given it to her with that crooked smile that used to make her stomach flip. Now he sleeps facing the wall, wakes up at 3 AM to check work Slack channels, exists in some half-state where she's not sure he's actually present.

The irony stings: she'd been the one climbing the corporate ladder, exhausted and hollowed out. She'd quit to find herself again. And somewhere along the way, Richard had become the zombie—consumed by quarterly projections, by the fear of being next, by the desperate belief that if he just worked harder, proved his worth, he'd be safe.

She wades into the water, the shock of cold forcing her breath sharp. The salt stings her eyes but she doesn't blink. When she reaches him, his iPhone buzzes in his waterproof case against his chest. He doesn't look at her.

"I'm leaving," she says.

He finally turns, and for a second she sees the old Richard surface from whatever depths he's been drowning in. The horror in his eyes is real. "What?"

"Not the vacation. The marriage."

The water swirls around them, calm and indifferent. The palm tree keeps casting shadows. His iPhone lights up with another notification, bright against his wet skin. For the first time in years, Richard ignores it.

"I thought we were happy," he whispers, and it's the first honest thing he's said in months.

"We were," she says. "But I don't know either of us anymore."