The Art of Floating

I'd become a zombie of my own life, moving through rooms I'd once decorated with hope, now just keeping things tidy enough that no one would ask questions. Sarah left three months ago, taking the good towels and her collection of vintage mirrors. What remained was me, the mortgage, and Barnaby — our obese tabby cat who'd apparently decided I was adequate enough, having deigned to sleep on my chest exactly twice since she'd gone.

The office wasn't better. Marcus, my boss, was a bull of a man — aggressive, territorial, and incapable of seeing past his own horns. He'd cornered me yesterday about the quarterly projections, his face flushing that particular shade of red that meant someone was about to get trampled. I'd nodded, taken notes, and felt absolutely nothing. That's what happens when your emotional capacity gets parceled out and spent elsewhere.

Thursday evenings were for padel. I'd started playing on a whim after Sarah left, something to fill the hours that had previously been ours. Elena, my usual partner, was twenty-eight, fierce, and going through a divorce of her own. We played hard, the racket's pop against the ball satisfying in a way office work never was. Tonight, though, I'd canceled.

Instead, I drove to the reservoir, parking where the asphalt dissolved into gravel. The water stretched dark and endless before me, moonlight catching the ripples like scattered diamonds. I sat on the hood of my car, a bottle of wine I'd opened in the parking lot of the liquor store sweating beside me.

You're supposed to feel things, I thought. Grief, anger, relief — something. But I just felt the weight of Barnaby's absence on my chest, the phantom pressure of him. I remembered Sarah telling me once that cats were the ultimate lesson in attachment: they taught you how to love something that might never love you back, and you did it anyway.

My phone buzzed. Elena. 'You coming?'

I typed 'No' and watched the message float away into digital space. Then I deleted it. The water lapped against the shore in a rhythm older than my problems, older than Marcus's bullshit, older than the hollow ache Sarah's departure had left.

I took a drink of wine and didn't feel anything at all. But for the first time in three months, that seemed okay. Some things you don't fix. You just learn to float.