The Architecture of Leaving

Marcus sat on the back deck, nursing his third bourbon, watching the **dog**—a stray Lab mix Sarah had taken in two months before she left—sleep in the patch of dying grass. The creature's name was Lucky, which Marcus found either bitterly ironic or cosmically cruel, depending on how many drinks he'd had.

The **pool** hadn't been cleaned since July. Green algae slicked the surface like an oil spill, and Sarah's collection of inflatable floats deflated at the bottom, ghostly plastic sea creatures in an emerald grave. He kept meaning to drain it, just as he kept meaning to call a divorce lawyer, just as he kept meaning to stop checking her Instagram.

The **cable** bill sat unpaid on the kitchen counter. He hadn't turned on the television since the night she told him she was unhappy—since she said she'd been unhappy for years, actually, and wasn't that just fucking typical, that he'd never noticed. He'd been too busy building his little **pyramid** schemes at work, climbing corporate ladders that didn't actually go anywhere, accumulating titles and responsibilities that meant less than nothing at 2 AM when the house was too quiet and the dog wouldn't stop whining at the back door.

He thought about his father, dead three years now, who'd taught him to play **baseball** in the park across the street. "You gotta keep your eye on the ball, Marc," he'd say, tobacco-stained fingers gripping the worn leather glove. "Everything else is noise." Marcus had taken that advice literally, filtering out everything but the target: the promotion, the raise, the corner office. Meanwhile, his life had been happening just outside his peripheral vision.

Lucky lifted his head, ears perked at something in the dark—maybe a raccoon, maybe the ghost of a marriage that had died slowly, quietly, without anyone noticing until it was already gone.

Marcus set down the glass. He stood up, joints popping, and walked to the pool's edge. The algae reflected the moon, a verdant mirror. Tomorrow, he decided. Tomorrow he'd drain it. Tomorrow he'd call the lawyer. Tomorrow he'd take the dog for a proper walk.

The night air was already cooler. Something was ending. Something else might be beginning. For the first time in months, he wasn't sure which frightened him more.