The Art of Drowning Gracefully

Margaret found herself **swimming** at 3 AM in the apartment complex pool, fully clothed, her blazer floating beside her like a drowned bird. The water was cold enough to make her bones ache, which felt appropriate.

She'd been at the office Christmas party when it happened — watching Marcus laugh with his hand on Sarah's lower back, exactly where his hand used to rest on hers. Sarah, fresh out of college, wearing some ridiculous **hat** with a fuzzy pom-pom, as if irony could shield her from the wreckage she was stepping into.

The **dog** — Marcus's golden retriever, Barnaby — had been theirs together. Margaret had fed him the same expensive **vitamin** supplements every morning for three years, shaped like little hearts. Now she wondered if Sarah would remember. Or if Barnaby would simply adjust, as dogs do, to whoever filled his bowl.

Her apartment felt too large, too full of things they'd chosen together. Even the **cat**, Luna, seemed to judge her, watching with those yellow eyes from the top of the refrigerator as Margaret paced through rooms that had become galleries of their shared history.

The pool lights flickered. Margaret treaded water, thinking about how she'd practiced this moment a hundred times in her head — the confrontation, the dramatic exit. Instead, she'd just slipped out the side door while Marcus was mid-story about something that wasn't important to anyone but him.

She climbed out, dripping and shivering. A security guard appeared, looking concerned.

"Everything okay, ma'am?"

Margaret wrapped her arms around herself. "I think so," she said. "I think I'm just done waiting for things to get better."

The **cat** would be waiting. Barnaby would never sleep at her feet again. The vitamins in the cupboard would expire before she finished them. And somewhere, Marcus was still laughing.

Margaret walked home, leaving wet footprints on the pavement that evaporated before dawn, like none of it had ever happened.