The Art of Drowning

Maya sat on the edge of the bathtub, her iPhone glowing with unsaid words. Another text from him: *Can we talk?* She'd been staring at it for twenty minutes, the screen casting a cold blue light across her face. The bathroom was the only place in the apartment that still felt like hers, even as the boxes stacked in the living room told a different story.

Her golden retriever, Buster, scratched at the door. He'd been moping since Daniel moved out last week—the dog understood the silence better than she did. Maya had rescued Buster from a shelter three years ago, the same week she'd rescued herself from a dead-end marriage. Now here she was, rescuing herself again.

On the bathroom counter, Carlos's goldfish—Carlos the human, not the fish—sat in a cheap bowl. He'd left it behind with the cat and half his record collection. The goldfish, named Steve, swam in slow, hypnotic circles. Maya had read once that goldfish had three-second memories, that every lap around the bowl was a new discovery. She envied Steve that particular brand of amnesia.

The water in the tub had gone cold an hour ago. She'd drawn it intending to soak, to wash away the weight of conversations that never ended, of explanations that never explained enough. Instead, she'd sat on the edge, fully clothed, watching her phone light up with messages she couldn't bring herself to answer.

Outside the bathroom window, the October sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in bruising shades of orange. It was the color of Daniel's favorite sweater, the one he'd left draped over the back of the sofa like a ghost. The orange deepened to red, then purple, then the gray of impending night.

Buster whined again, and Maya finally opened the door. He bounded in, tail wagging furiously, and promptly stuck his nose in the fishbowl. Steve darted to the bottom in a panic of silver scales.

"Careful," Maya said, but her voice cracked. She hadn't spoken out loud since morning.

She picked up her phone, typed *I think we need more time,* and pressed send before she could talk herself out of it. Then she dropped the phone on the bathmat and began to undress. The water was frigid against her skin, shocking her awake, shocking her into feeling something other than the dull ache that had settled in her chest.

Buster lay down on the bathmat, resting his chin on her phone. In the fishbowl, Steve resumed his patient circling. Outside, the last of the orange faded from the sky, leaving behind the first stars. Maya sank deeper into the cold water, and for the first time in days, she could breathe.