The Art of Drowning Slowly

Arthur stood under the outdoor shower behind his apartment building, letting cool water cascade over his runner's frame. Forty-two years old and still running, though these days he wasn't sure what he was running toward or away from anymore. The morning palm trees cast long shadows across his wet skin as he leaned his head back, mouth open, drinking like a man who'd forgotten what thirst felt like until it was too late.

Inside, his wife Mara sat at the kitchen table, staring at her open palm as if the lines there might rearrange themselves into something resembling hope. She'd started doing this after her promotion—examining her lifeline, her heart line, tracing them with trembling fingers.

"You look like a zombie," she'd said last night, not unkindly, when Arthur had returned from his evening run, eyes glazed, body moving on autopilot. "Not the eating brains kind. The walking dead kind. The ones who don't know they've died."

Arthur opened the refrigerator, staring at the wilted spinach he'd bought three days ago because some article said it would help with focus, with energy, with something. He forced himself to eat a handful, the metallic taste making him want to gag. This was what his life had become: force-feeding himself things that were supposed to make him feel alive.

"My palm says I'm supposed to have two children," Mara said, not looking up. "I don't even want children."

Arthur swallowed the spinach. "Maybe the palm reader was wrong."

"Maybe I'm wrong," she whispered. "Maybe everyone I know is wrong about everything."

They were both running now—he literally, she metaphorically. Both zombies in their own ways, moving through motions they'd stopped questioning years ago. Outside, the palm fronds rustled in the wind, and somewhere beyond their apartment, the city hummed with millions of people just like them.

Arthur thought about the water he'd stood under earlier, how it had felt like the only honest thing in his life. He turned to Mara, water still clinging to his eyelashes like tears he couldn't remember crying.

"Let's sell everything," he said, the words feeling foreign in his mouth. "Let's just... stop running."