The Art of Drowning

The quarterly review meeting had been three hours of Marcus standing at the head of a polished mahogany table, spraying bullshit like a garden sprinkler gone rogue. "Synergy," he kept saying. "Paradigm shift." Elena watched his mouth move, the way his bull neck strained against his collar, and thought about how much of her life she'd traded for health insurance and a 401k that seemed to shrivel every time she checked the app.

She left the office at 7:43 PM, the sky that particular shade of purple that comes just before everything goes black. Her phone buzzed with messages she wouldn't answer: her mother asking when she'd visit, her ex sending something that started with "I was just thinking about us," her therapist reminding her of their appointment tomorrow.

Elena walked toward the river instead of the subway. The water was dark, moving with that relentless patience that scared her as much as comforted her. She stood at the railing and thought about stepping over, not to jump but to just stand there on the other side, where the concrete didn't exist and the current would take whatever she gave it.

"You're going to fall, you know," a voice said.

Elena turned. A woman sat on a bench nearby, cigarette glowing like a dying star. A calico cat curled beside her, watching Elena with those eyes that always seemed to know things they shouldn't.

"I wasn't going to jump," Elena said, though she wasn't sure if she was lying.

"Didn't say you were." The woman exhaled smoke that vanished instantly in the wind. "But there's a difference between thinking about drowning and actually getting wet."

The cat stood, stretched, walked to Elena's feet, and began weaving through her ankles like it had known her for years. Elena felt something crack open in her chest—something that had been sealed since the last time she'd let herself hope for something different than what she had.

"His name's Bull," the woman said, surprising her.

"The cat?"

"My ex-husband. The cat's Chaos." The woman laughed, and it wasn't a happy sound. "But I call them both asshole, so it works out."

Elena found herself laughing too. She reached down and let the cat press its head into her palm, the vibration of its purr traveling up her arm and settling somewhere behind her ribs.

"You okay?" the woman asked.

"No," Elena said. "But I think I'm going to be."

The river kept moving behind her, dark and patient and absolutely indifferent to whether she was okay or not. And somehow, that was exactly what she needed to hear.