The Art of Drowning in Air

The room service cart sat untouched by the sliding glass doors, a macabre still life of tropical abundance. Papaya sliced into perfect wedges. Orange segments glistening like suspicious jewels. A whole coconut with a straw protruding from its skull like some sacrifice.

Elena sat on the balcony of their overwater bungalow in Bora Bora, watching Marcus swimming laps in the cerulean infinity pool below. His strokes were precise, rhythmic, maddeningly competent. Everything about Marcus was competent now. The way he packed suitcases. The way he terminated employees. The way he lied.

She traced the palm of her left hand with her right thumb, following the lines the fortune teller in New Orleans had interpreted so wrongly three years ago. "You'll have a long life," the woman had said, pressing her papery skin against Elena's. "Full of love and children."

The papaya on the cart was beginning to oxidize, turning soft and brown at the edges. Like trust.

Marcus hauled himself out of the pool, water streaming from his运动员's body. He waved up at her, that familiar smile that used to make her feel safe. Now it just made her feel stupid. How many times had he smiled like that while deleting text messages? While taking "long lunches" that somehow always coincided with his assistant's yoga schedule?

Elena had found the receipts two days before they left for this "second honeymoon" that was supposed to save their marriage. Jewelry purchased on dates she couldn't remember. Hotels in cities he'd never visited for business.

The oranges on the cart had been sectioned with surgical precision. Marcus liked things precise. His alibis. His schedule. The ways he'd constructed a life that looked perfect from the outside but was rotting from within.

She stood up and walked to the balcony railing. The humid air pressed against her skin, heavy and suffocating. Marcus was drying off with a fluffy white towel, still smiling up at her, still performing the role of devoted husband.

"Elena!" he called. "Come down! The water's perfect!"

She looked at her palm again. The life line. The heart line. All of it a lie. Some people spent their whole lives swimming in circles, thinking they were moving forward, when really they were just treading water in a pool that someone else had drained years ago.

"Coming," she called back, and meant something entirely different by it.