Poolside Lazarus

The water in the pool was that impossible, chemical turquoise that doesn't exist in nature. Elena sat on the lounge chair, nursing her third prosecco, watching her colleagues from the marketing department float on inflatables shaped like flamingos and pizza slices. They laughed with their heads thrown back, mouths wide, teeth flashing in the afternoon sun. She felt nothing.

She'd been running on autopilot for six months since the divorce. Maybe longer. That's what she called it now: her zombie period. Not the brain-eating kind, but the slow, shuffling variety—still moving, still showing up to work and dinner parties and weekend brunches, but something essential had hollowed out inside. She performed the motions of a life without actually living it.

Her phone buzzed. Another Slack notification from her boss. She ignored it.

"You look like you're plotting everyone's murder," a voice said.

She looked up. It was Marcus from accounting, holding two drinks. He was handsome in a way she'd stopped noticing years ago—dark skin, sharp jawline, eyes that crinkled when he smiled. He wasn't smiling now.

"Just contemplating the merits of joining the pool," she said, gesturing vaguely toward the water. "Fully clothed."

He sat beside her. "The zombie phase. I know it well. Mine lasted three years after my mother died."

Elena turned to look at him. Really look at him. Something shifted in her chest, a tiny tremor of actual feeling.

"Does it end?" she asked.

"Yeah. But you have to choose to wake up. You have to want to."

He stood up and extended a hand. She took it, surprising herself. They walked to the pool's edge together, and without speaking, they jumped—clothes, phones, shoes and all—into the turquoise water. The shock of cold hit her like a slap. She went under, then surfaced, gasping, laughing, Marcus's hand still tight in hers. For the first time in months, she felt something like hope.