Poolside Calculus

The cat appeared at precisely 2 AM, sauntering across the pool deck like she owned the place. Sarah sat at the deep end, legs submerged in water that had turned cold hours ago, clutching a glass of wine she'd finished long ago.

"You're not supposed to be here," she told the cat, which ignored her completely and began licking its paw.

Neither was she, technically. This was David's building. David's pool. David who'd left her for someone "more aligned with his trajectory" three months ago. But she still had the key fob, and the night security guard had stopped checking months ago.

Her phone buzzed. Mark again.

*We need to talk. About the project. About us.*

Sarah had met Mark at a baseball game last season — corporate box seats, her boss trying to impress clients. They'd bonded over their mutual indifference toward sports and their very specific enthusiasm for self-destruction. He was married. She was freshly separated. It had been messy from inning one.

The cat abandoned its grooming to stare at her with ancient, unimpressed eyes.

"What?" Sarah said. "You think I don't know?"

Of course she knew. Whatever this thing was with Mark — whoever Mark actually was when he wasn't sending work emails at midnight or disappearing for "family emergencies" — it had calcified into something that looked like friendship but felt entirely like erosion.

She remembered the last time she'd felt whole. Standing in this exact pool three years ago, David wrapping his arms around her waist, both of them drunk on summer and the terrifying certainty that they'd found it. The one. The end of the search.

What a spectacular miscalculation.

The cat yawned, revealing needle teeth, then padded toward the gate. Sarah watched it go, feeling something tighten in her chest. Even the cat knew when to cut losses.

She stood up, water streaming down her legs, and opened Mark's message. Her thumb hovered over delete.

The cat paused at the gate, looking back once, as if to say: well? What are you waiting for?

Sarah deleted the message. Then the thread. Then blocked the number.

The apartment was quiet when she returned. She fell asleep without eating, without crying, without planning anything beyond the next morning's coffee, and for the first time in months, she didn't dream about baseball.