The Art of Treading Water

The papaya sat on her breakfast plate like an accusation—fleshy, orange-segmented, entirely too optimistic for 7 AM at a couples resort booked for one. Elena poked at it with her fork. Three weeks ago, Marcus would've been across the table, making terrible jokes about the fruit's tropical origins. Now it was just her and the aggressive cheerfulness of the wait staff.

She took her coffee to the pool deck, where a golden retriever paddled in lazy circles near the ladder. Some guests had brought their dog, apparently. The animal looked more content than she felt.

"You here with someone?" a voice asked.

Elena looked up. A man in his forties, handsome in that generic corporate way, stood beside her lounge chair. He held an orange juice, condensation slicking the glass.

"No," she said. "You?"

"No. Thank god." He gestured to the empty chair. "Mind?"

She shrugged. He sat.

"David," he said.

"Elena."

"So what's your story?" David asked, too casual. "Business retreat gone wrong?"

"Wedding cancelled."

"Oof." He didn't look away. "That's bold."

"It wasn't my choice."

"Ah." David peeled his orange, the citrus spray misting between them. "My wife left me for my personal trainer. Three months ago. I come here whenever the loneliness gets too loud at home."

The dog climbed out of the pool, shook water everywhere, and settled between them like an emotional support animal neither had requested.

"You know what's funny?" David said. "I spent ten years swimming upstream in that marriage, convinced if I just tried harder, I'd reach the shore. Turns out I was just in the wrong river."

Elena looked at the papaya remnants on her plate, then at the dog drying itself in the sun.

"Maybe," she said, "we're all just treading water until we figure out which way is actually shore."

David laughed, surprised and genuine. He offered her a segment of his orange.

"To water," he said.

"To water," she echoed, and for the first time in weeks, something in her chest loosened.