The Art of Floating

Mara floated on her back in the resort pool at midnight, starlight painting the water silver. She felt like a zombie these days—alive but not truly living, moving through grief's autopilot. Three months since David's heart attack, and she still reached for his side of the bed every morning.

"Couldn't sleep either?" A voice cut through the darkness.

Mara treaded water, finding a man standing at the pool's edge—maybe forty, handsome in that careless way wealthy men wear like cologne. "Something like that."

"Mind if I join?"

She shrugged, and he slid into the water with practiced ease. They floated in companionable silence until he spoke again. "I'm Marcus, by the way. Here for the corporate retreat."

"Mara. Here to... exist."

He laughed softly. "That makes two of us. My wife left me for my brother. I'm currently channeling my pain into padel tournaments."

Despite herself, Mara smiled. "David and I were supposed to learn padel this spring. We booked this resort months ago."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I've been fine. Actually, that's not true." She told him about the carnival goldfish David won her their first summer together—a tiny orange thing that lived six years and outlasted three apartments. "Every pet store we passed, he'd say, 'There's our goldfish's cousin.' Stupid, right?"

"Not stupid." Marcus's voice dropped. "My brother gave me this ceramic bear for my birthday last year—said it represented my spirit animal. Protective, territorial, fiercely loyal." He let out a bitter laugh. "Guess the joke was on me."

Mara reached beneath the water, found his hand. "Maybe we're both zombies tonight."

His fingers interlaced with hers. "Tomorrow we'll walk again."

They floated until dawn's first light painted the horizon, two strangers bearing witness to each other's wounds, suspended in the quiet grace of simply being seen.