The Art of Floating

The divorce papers sat unsigned on the nightstand, but Marcus and Elena continued playing their parts. Day three at the Riviera resort, and they'd perfected the choreography of avoidance.

"Padel?" Marcus asked, already knowing her answer. He gripped his racket like a weapon.

"You go." Elena didn't look up from her book. "I'll stay here."

The pool curved around their private villa like an apology. Elena lowered herself into the water, letting it swallow her body inch by inch. At the shallow end, three goldfish darted between artificial rocks—orange flashes against turquoise, trapped in their glass-walled Eden, beautiful and doomed and completely unaware.

She swam to the pool's edge where a single palm tree cast a spiky shadow across the water. Its fronds rustled in the breeze, a whisper of something that might have been tropical paradise if she'd come here with anyone else, anyone she still loved.

Marcus returned an hour later, sweat-darkened shirt clinging to his back. His fedora—a ridiculous affectation he'd adopted since turning forty—was pushed back on his forehead. He stood at the pool's edge, silhouetted against the blazing Mexican sun.

"I thought about what you said," he said quietly. "About how we became roommates who happen to share a bed."

Elena treaded water, keeping her head above the surface. "And?"

"And I don't want roommates." He removed his hat, setting it carefully on a lounge chair. "But I don't know if I want us either. Not like this."

The goldfish surfaced, breaking the tension with their mindless nibbling at something invisible.

"Maybe," Elena said, pushing wet hair from her face, "that's the point. Maybe we both need to learn to swim alone before we can swim together again."

Marcus nodded once, then turned back toward the villa. He didn't take his hat.

Elena floated on her back, staring up at the palm-fringed sky, finally weightless.