Poolside Prayers

Margaret stood at the kitchen counter at 11:47 PM, mechanically chewing cold leftover spinach from the container. Her husband David had left two months ago—moved out to the city to 'find himself' with his 26-year-old assistant, Chelsea. Chelsea with the perfect blonde hair that never frizzed, Chelsea who probably ate kale instead of frozen spinach, Chelsea who wouldn't be standing alone in her kitchen at midnight in boxers and a stained t-shirt.

She swallowed and washed it down with warm white wine. The house felt cavernous without David's bullshit stories about his day, his exaggerations about workplace victories, his relentless bullish enthusiasm for projects that never materialized. God, she'd actually miss his lies. The comforting way he'd embellish everything, turning a mediocre Tuesday into an epic saga.

Margaret walked out to the backyard. The swimming pool—David's midlife crisis purchase last summer—glowed an eerie blue from the underwater lights. They'd used it exactly four times. She'd caught him Chelsea-smiling at his phone by it once, cable-knit sweater on his shoulders like some prep school ghost, while she'd been inside making dinner. The cable guy had been there that same day. Funny what you remember when you're lonely.

She dipped her foot in. Cold. Alive. The bull market had crashed and so had her marriage, both seemingly inevitable in hindsight. She thought about diving in, clothes and all, letting the chlorine wash away the spinach taste and the wistfulness and the particular ache of missing someone who was never really there.

Instead, she sat on the edge, feet dangling in the water, and watched the moon ripple below. Tomorrow she'd drain the pool. Tonight, she'd just let herself feel something real.