The Art of Floating

The resort's infinity pool blurred into the horizon, a seamless sheet of turquoise dissolving into the Pacific. Elena floated on her back, ears submerged, letting the water muffle the conversation at the other end. She watched the palm fronds sway against a sky the color of a fresh bruise.

"She's making a scene," Marcus said, his voice rippling through the water like distant thunder. "It's embarrassing, Elena."

She surfaced slowly. "You're the one who invited your ex-wife to our anniversary trip."

"We're padel partners! It's a tournament!" Marcus gestured toward the courts where Linda—long legs, terrible sportsmanship—was indeed creating a spectacle. She'd smashed her racket after losing the semifinal match. Now she sat alone at the poolside bar, nursing something bright orange and toxic.

Elena treaded water, watching her husband of ten years. His shoulders were tensed toward the court, not her. "You haven't looked at me since we landed."

"I'm trying to win, Elena. You know how competitive I get." He stripped off his shirt, revealing the uneven tan of a man who spent too much time in office parks. "Come on. Doubles finals in an hour."

"I'm done, Marcus."

He paused, one arm through his polo sleeve. "What?"

"With this. With us." Elena swam to the pool's edge and pulled herself up, water streaming off her like a second skin. "You're more interested in your ex-wife's padel game than your own marriage. That's not competition. That's something else."

Marcus laughed, but it was hollow, an echo of the man she'd married. "You're being dramatic. This is our anniversary trip. We paid for the premium package—"

"The orange bracelet," she said, touching the plastic band around her wrist that granted access to privileges she no longer wanted. "I noticed Linda's is blue. Standard package. You upgraded us but not her."

The silence stretched between them, longer than the shadows of the palm trees across the deck. Then something unreadable crossed Marcus's face—guilt, maybe. Or relief.

"I booked her separate," he said quietly. "She's staying down the beach."

"I know. I saw her yesterday." Elena stood up, water dripping from her hair onto the pristine concrete. "You told me she stayed here."

Marcus's palm went to his forehead, a gesture she'd seen a thousand times in boardrooms, never in their marriage. "Elena—"

"Go play your match." She grabbed her towel. "I'll be at the bar. With your ex-wife."