The Art of Treading Water

Margaret stood at the edge of the apartment complex's pool at 2 AM, the water still as glass despite the humidity of July. Forty-seven years old and starting over, she'd moved into this temporary housing three weeks after David packed his things—after twenty-two years of marriage, he'd cited "grown apart" in his text message, the coward's way out.

The fluorescent underwater lights cast rippling blue shadows on the concrete. She'd always been terrified of deep water, a fear David had found amusing, even charming. Now she found herself here nightly, pulled by something she couldn't name. Some masochistic instinct to stand at the edge of things she'd spent decades avoiding.

A noise from the darkness—a young man, maybe thirty, emerged from the pool house, shirtless, toweling his hair. They'd exchanged nods in the hallway. His name was Marcus, something in finance, currently between jobs like half the building's residents.

"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked.

"Pool's peaceful at night," she said, then immediately regretted how defensive it sounded.

Marcus laughed, the sound startlingly warm. "My grandmother swore by swimming when she couldn't turn off her brain. Said something about the water forcing you to be present. You can't multitask when you're trying not to drown."

Margaret found herself telling him everything—about David, about the empty house now sold, about the terrifying freedom of having nothing and no one requiring anything from her. Marcus listened without the polite impatience she'd come to expect from people her age.

"My boss at the investment firm used to call it 'running through the Bull gates,'" Marcus said when she finished. "You know, like Pamplona. Every morning, everyone charging through, hoping not to get trampled. I did it for twelve years before the layoffs."

"And now?"

"Now I'm learning to walk." He smiled, and for the first time since the divorce papers arrived, Margaret felt something unclench in her chest.

"Teach me to swim," she heard herself say.

Marcus didn't ask why she'd waited so long. He simply said, "Tomorrow night. Bring a suit."

Margaret returned to her apartment and lay on her air mattress, staring at the ceiling. Somewhere in the building, other people were sleeping, starting over, running from bulls, learning to swim. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in months, she didn't immediately wish for morning not to come.