The Art of Floating

The infinity pool blurred into the Caribbean at sunset, that impossible blue meeting another impossible blue. Elena floated on her back, fingers trailing through the warm water, while Marcus sat on the deck nursing a rum punch that had gone warm hours ago. Somewhere beyond the property wall, a cat yowled in heat—that raw, desperate sound that made you feel lonely even when you weren't alone.

"You're thinking about it again," Marcus said, not a question.

"The papaya on the buffet."

"The merger."

"Both."

She'd told him about the due diligence meeting three times already. How the CEO of the startup they were acquiring had kept a goldfish bowl on his conference table, how he'd watched it swim in tight, panicked circles while discussing valuation. How she'd wanted to ask the fish if it knew it was about to become part of something much larger, something that might swallow it whole.

"We're not talking about work on this trip," Marcus said. "That was the agreement."

"Everything is work lately."

They'd come to the Dominican Republic to reconnect—her idea, his reluctant agreement. But they'd been here four days and the distance between them felt like an ocean, not just a resort pool. They played padel every morning because the court was included in their package, Marcus smashing balls against the glass walls while Elena tried not to think about quarterly projections and the way her father had looked at her when he handed her the CFO role.

"Your mother called while you were in the shower," Marcus said now. "She asked about the wedding date."

Elena sank beneath the water, held her breath until her lungs burned. When she surfaced, gasping, Marcus was watching her with that patient expression that made her want to scream. He was good at waiting. He'd been waiting for her to be ready for marriage for three years.

"The goldfish died," she said. "The CEO mentioned it today. Just floated to the top."

"That's not a good metaphor, El."

"Maybe it's not a metaphor. Maybe some things just end."

The cat yowled again, closer this time. Somewhere, the papaya ripened on the counter, sweet and unpurchased. In the pool, her legs brushed against his—he didn't pull away, but he didn't reach for her either. Some distances, she realized, you could swim across all day and never reach the other side.