Salt Water & Signal

The hotel pool glowed iridescent blue against the velvet darkness of 2 AM. Elena floated on her back, staring up at the palm fronds that ghosted against the moon like skeletal fingers. She'd come to Costa Rica to save her marriage, but Richard had spent three days glued to his laptop, the cable from the room's modem stretching taut across the balcony like an umbilical cord he couldn't sever.

She wasn't swimming anymore—just drifting, suspended in salt water that smelled faintly of coconut and the papaya she'd crushed into her hair earlier, some spa treatment she'd booked alone. The flesh had grown warm against her scalp in the tropical heat before she'd washed it out, leaving her skin sticky and sweet.

"You're going to turn into a prune," Richard said from the pool's edge. He was holding his phone, the screen illuminating his exhausted face. "Work crisis. The New York office is burning."

Elena treaded water, watching him. They'd met fifteen years ago at a corporate retreat much like this one, two analysts who'd fucked in the conference room after too many complimentary mai tais. Now they made six figures combined and hadn't touched each other in six months.

"The cable's out," she said. "In our room. Not that you'd notice."

He blinked, then actually looked at her. "What?"

"The cable. No HBO, no CNN. Nothing but static. Thought you should know, since you're married to that thing anyway." She gestured at his phone.

Richard's laugh was rusty. "That's not a cable, El. That's fiber optic. And I'm sorry about—about everything. This trip. The last however many months." He sat on the edge, dangling his feet in the water. "I keep thinking if I work harder, we can afford to start over. Fresh. Clean."

Elena swam to him, placing her hands on his knees. His skin was pale against the darkness, so unlike the rich warmth of the water. "We can't afford what we had," she said softly. "That was free."

They stayed like that as the papaya scent faded from her skin and the first fingers of dawn touched the palms above them, not speaking, not swimming, just present in the same body of water as the temperature dropped and the sky turned the color of old bruises.