Poolside Resurrection

The chlorine stung Mark's nose as he sat at the edge of the pool, legs submerged in water that refused to warm. His colleagues' laughter rippled across the surface while his thumb moved across his iphone screen—a nervous habit, a desperate anchor to something else, anywhere else.

"You're not even here," Sarah had said that morning, and she wasn't wrong. Mark had been moving through his life like a zombie for months now—performing the motions of husband, father, employee while something essential hollowed him out from inside. The pool party was her department's quarterly celebration, another social requirement he'd agreed to with that automatic, comforting smile.

Sarah stood across the water, surrounded by junior analysts, her corporate laugh bright and practiced. She looked good in her swimsuit—better than she had in years, actually. She'd started those spin classes, changed her diet. All that spinach and grilled chicken, she'd announced proudly, though Mark couldn't remember the last time they'd eaten dinner together.

He watched her laugh at something her boss said, head thrown back, and there it was—a small piece of spinach caught between her front teeth, vivid green against her polished professionalism. No one had told her. Probably wouldn't. It was the kind of small cruelty that passed for politeness, the careful preservation of dignity that came at the cost of genuine connection.

Mark's thumb stilled on his phone.

The spinach had been there since their rushed breakfast, he realized. He'd seen it then. Hadn't said anything. Hadn't wanted to interrupt her nervous monologue about the presentation, hadn't wanted to admit he was actually listening. Too tired to care, too cowardly to reach across the table that morning and say, simply, *you have something in your teeth.*

The zombie-ness of it caught him breathless. Not the walking dead, but the living who refused to be present. The easy paralysis of checking his iphone instead of his wife. The hollow comfort of disconnection.

Mark stood up, water dripping from his legs, and crossed the pool deck. His heart hammered—ridiculous, terrifying. When he reached Sarah, the conversation faltered. Her eyes found his, startled.

"Spinach," he said softly, gesturing to his own teeth. "Since breakfast."

Her hand flew to her mouth. The junior analysts scattered. And then Sarah laughed—really laughed, the sound he'd fallen in love with in college, uncorporate and unpracticed.

"You saw it this morning?" she asked, and something in her voice cracked open.

"Yeah," Mark said. "I just—" He stopped. "I'm done being asleep."

She studied him for a long moment, then took his hand. "Good," she said. "Because I missed you."

The pool sparkled behind them, but neither of them looked back.