Swimming in Static

Marcus stood at the edge of the pool at 3 AM, the water black and uninviting. The divorce papers were due tomorrow — forty pages detailing everything he'd lose, including custody of Barnaby, their golden retriever who'd been sleeping at the foot of their bed for seven years.

He stripped down and lowered himself into the water. It was shockingly cold, but he needed it. Needed the feeling of something pushing against his skin, something real and uncomplicated. Sarah had taken the TV when she left, leaving behind a coaxial cable snaking across the living room floor like a dead vine. That cable had delivered their shared illusions — the shows they binged after fights, the news they watched in silence, the pornography that failed to jumpstart their dying sex life.

Barnaby appeared at the pool's edge, nose twitching. The dog had stopped eating three days ago. Sarah said Marcus was projecting, but he knew better. The animal understood what was happening before either of them could articulate it.

"Come on," Marcus whispered, splashing water toward the edge. Barnaby didn't move.

Marcus began swimming laps, counting strokes to drown out the memories. The seventeenth time Sarah had said she wasn't happy. The weekend they'd spent assembling IKEA furniture, discussing children they never had. The way she'd started keeping her phone face down.

He was on his twentieth lap when he heard it — the splash of something entering the water. Barnaby, paddling clumsily toward him, that same determination he'd shown chasing tennis balls now directed at something he couldn't name. The dog reached him, treading water with those awkward strokes, and Marcus grabbed his collar. They floated there together, man and beast, suspended in darkness while above them the house waited empty, its severed cable dangling from the wall like an unanswered question.

"We're swimming, buddy," Marcus said, and realized he was crying. "Just swimming."