The Art of Drowning

The apartment was quiet now—too quiet. Maya stood on the balcony, her bare feet gripping the cool concrete, and watched the **pool** below. The water was still, reflecting the orange glow of sunset like a bruise. Six months ago, Richard had jumped from this spot with a champagne flute in hand, screaming about reinvention. Now the pool was empty, drained for maintenance, its bottom littered with leaves and forgotten hopes.

Inside, the television flickered with the sound off. A loose **cable** dangled from the wall where Richard had ripped it out during his final meltdown, something about corporate spies monitoring through the screen. Maya had left it that way—a small monument to his unraveling.

She peeled an **orange**, the citrus spray sharp in the stagnant air. They'd bought a bag of them the day before he left. He'd been making grand plans again, talking about moving to Barcelona or opening a bakery, always running toward something, away from something. The oranges were rotting now in the bowl, soft spots blooming like bruises.

The **cat**, Barnaby, wound around her ankles, purring with desperate intensity. He'd stopped eating after Richard left. Maya found him sitting by the door every morning, waiting. She understood. Her own body performed the same rituals—reaching for the phone at 7 PM, setting two places for dinner, waking at 3 AM to the phantom weight of another person's absence.

In the corner of the living room, the **goldfish** bowl caught the last light. Richard had won it at a carnival three years ago, some drunken night when they still called it romance. The fish was ancient now, swimming its endless circles in stagnant water. Maya dropped a pinch of food and watched the surface ripple.

"We're all just waiting to be fed," she whispered.

The fish surfaced, mouth opening and closing in silent rhythm. Beyond it, through the sliding glass doors, the pool water caught the fading light. A single leaf drifted across its empty bottom.

Maya finished her orange, sticky juice on her fingers. She thought about Barcelona, about bakeries, about all the places people go when they can't stand still. Then she went inside, grabbed her phone, and booked a ticket. Not to Barcelona. To somewhere she'd never mentioned to him—a small town in Oregon where no one knew her name.

The cat watched her pack, then curled up on Richard's favorite sweater. Some things knew when to let go.