Shallow End

The community pool at 6 AM has a certain melancholy — the way the morning light catches the ripples, turning the water into something that looks almost solid, like creased silk. Marcus floats on his back, swimming laps he doesn't count, letting the water muffle the world. At forty-two, he's become the kind of man who finds solace in routine, in the hollow splash of arms cutting through chlorinated silence.

His daughter would be seven today. The thought arrives uninvited, as it does every May 5th. He pictures her in the oversized baseball hat she'd stolen from his closet last spring, the brim flopping over her eyes when she ran. She'd insisted on wearing it to breakfast, to the park, to bed. Sarah had laughed, said their girl was stubborn as hell, just like him.

Now Sarah's emails sit unread in his inbox. The divorce papers sit on his kitchen counter beneath a bag of spinach that's already turning slimy at the edges. He should throw it out. He should do a lot of things.

The lifeguard blows the whistle — a sharp, piercing sound that pulls Marcus from the shallow end of his own mind. He grips the pool's edge, his fingers pruning. An orange slice floats in the water near the drain, where someone's snack has escaped. It bobs gently in the current, bright and absurd against the blue tiles.

He remembers the way Sarah used to cut oranges for their daughter, removing every seed with surgical precision. The care she took with small things. How he'd resented it sometimes, that patience she couldn't seem to extend to him.

Marcus pulls himself from the pool, water streaming from his body like he's some kind of baptism he's not sure he believes in. The morning air hits his skin, raising gooseflesh. He walks toward the locker room, leaving wet footprints that vanish almost as soon as they appear.

Another day. Another set of laps. The spinach can wait one more night.