Swimming in Circles

The **lightning** struck somewhere beyond the horizon, a silent stutter that painted the sky violet. Elena sat at the edge of the infinity pool, legs dangling in the warm water, nursing her third gin and tonic. Marcus was upstairs in their suite, probably already asleep, or more likely, pretending to be.

She slipped into the pool, the water swallowing her like a second skin. **Swimming** laps had become her ritual during these annual trips to Cabo—him at the bar, her in the water, both avoiding the conversation that needed to happen. She'd chosen this resort specifically for its isolation, hoping the enforced proximity would force them to confront the distance growing between them like a tumor.

Instead, they'd perfected the art of parallel existence.

Her **palm** grazed the mosaic tiles as she turned at the pool's edge. She remembered how he used to hold her hand in movies, his thumb tracing circles on her skin, how that simple contact had once been enough to make her feel safe. Now, when he reached for her in bed, she found herself flinching.

Back in their Chicago apartment, their elderly tabby **cat**, Picasso, had taken to sleeping on her pillow instead of theirs, as if even the animal sensed the cold front settling in. Picasso had been Marcus's idea—a commitment test, he'd called it, eight years ago. Now the cat would outlast their marriage.

Elena floated on her back, staring up at the palm trees swaying against a bruised sky. She felt like a **goldfish** in a bowl, swimming the same laps, forgetting why she'd started, circling endlessly in a container that had once felt like home and now felt like a trap.

Another flash of lightning, closer this time. The storm would break soon. She should go inside. She should wake Marcus and say the words that had been choking her for months.

Instead, she swam another lap.