The Absence of Water

The vitamin D supplements sat in the cabinet like accusations, three untouched bottles lined up with military precision. Elena had bought them before she left, part of her campaign to optimize us into a better version of ourselves. Now they were just artifacts of a life that no longer existed.

I found myself at the community pool at 6 AM, the hour when the water was still glass-smooth and the fluorescent lights hummed an apology. Swimming had been her domain—she'd glided through lanes with elegant grace while I slogged along like a drowning insect. Now I was here alone, practicing a routine that felt like performance art without an audience.

"You're doing it wrong," a voice said from the lane next to me.

I surfaced, sputtering. A woman in her sixries treaded water, watching me with clinical detachment. "You're fighting the water. Let it hold you."

"Elena always said I swam like I was escaping something."

"Aren't we all?" The woman disappeared underwater in a silver bubble.

Later, walking home, I passed the park where our dog Buster used to chase tennis balls with religious devotion. After the divorce, Elena had taken him, claiming his separation anxiety required her presence. I'd secretly suspected she just needed something warm to curl up with in our empty bed.

The vitamin bottles were still waiting when I returned. I swallowed one dry, imagining it as some kind of penance. We spend our lives trying to optimize our existence—supplements and exercise and self-improvement regimens—only to realize that the things that actually matter can't be measured or manufactured.

The water had been right. Some days you just have to stop fighting and let yourself float.