The Art of Losing

The water in the hotel pool was that perfect, impossible blue — the kind that exists only in places where real life is kept at bay by security gates and minimum nightly rates. Elena sat at the edge, her legs submerged to the calves, watching the ripples distort her reflection. She'd turned thirty-eight three hours ago, and the only person who'd remembered was the automated birthday email from United Airlines.

"You're going to miss it," Richard said from the chaise beside her, swirling his third martini. He was her boss, her sometime lover, and the reason she'd flown to Tucson for this conference instead of being at home with her dying mother. "Your kid's baseball game, I mean."

Elena didn't look at him. "He's fourteen. He stopped caring if I showed up years ago."

"That's not what he told me at the Christmas party."

Richard always did this — wielded her son like a weapon, then pretended he was just making conversation. He was a bull of a man, all blunt force and territorial aggression, even in this artificial oasis where palm trees swayed in a wind that smelled like money and chlorine. Last quarter, he'd taken credit for her whole campaign strategy. Tomorrow, he'd probably promote someone else over her head.

She thought about her phone, facedown on the towel. Her sister had texted two hours ago: Mom's asking for you. The hospice nurse said it might be tonight. But Elena was still here, still choosing this — the lukewarm water, Richard's heavy breathing, the slow erosion of everything she'd once promised herself she'd never compromise.

"You know what I learned in therapy?" she said, finally turning to look at him. Richard had closed his eyes, his chest rising and falling like something satisfied with itself. "Richard."

He cracked one eye open. "What?"

"I learned that you can be winning the game and still lose everything worth having."

She stood up, water dripping from her legs onto the concrete. Somewhere far away, she could hear the echo of a baseball hitting a bat — a clean, perfect sound that made her chest ache. She wrapped her towel around herself and walked toward the hotel room where her phone waited, leaving Richard alone with his martini and the artificial blue water that was, in the end, just water after all.