The Art of Treading Water

The pool was closed, but Elena knew the back gate code. She'd been coming here at 2 AM for three weeks, since the divorce papers arrived, since Marcus moved out, since the silence in their apartment became too loud to bear.

Tonight, the water was colder than usual. She slipped in, letting the chlorine embrace her like a lover who wouldn't leave. Swimming laps had become her meditation, each stroke a rejection of the life she'd almost had — the house with the picket fence, the children they'd never have, the golden retriever they'd argued about naming. Marcus had wanted "Buster." Elena had pushed for "Atticus." They'd settled on nothing, which turned out to be prophetic.

She was on her eighth lap when she heard it — a soft, desperate sound from the deck area.

Elena treaded water, squinting toward the shadows. There, curled on one of the lounge chairs, was a cat. Not a stray — a fat, pampered Persian with one blue eye and one green, watching her with what seemed like judgment. It belonged to Mrs. Gable in 4B, the woman who always smelled like lavender and disapproval.

"You're not supposed to be here," Elena whispered.

The cat blinked slowly.

Then she heard footsteps on the concrete. Marcus.

He stood at the pool's edge, silhouette against the moonlight, holding the cat's carrier. "She got out. Mrs. Gable's been freaking out. I saw the gate open and thought..." His voice caught. "I thought it might be you."

Elena treaded water, heart suddenly racing harder than any lap had made it. "You've been checking?"

"Every night." Marcus sat on the edge, feet dangling in the water. "The security log shows when someone uses the back gate. I've been coming by after, just to make sure you're okay. I never came in. I didn't want to... I didn't want to break your rhythm."

The cat meowed, indignant about being held.

Elena swam to the edge, resting her arms on the concrete beside him. His leg was warm against her cold skin. "I swam myself into exhaustion every night hoping I'd stop dreaming about the dog we never got."

"I dreamed about the dog too," Marcus said quietly. "I still want Buster. Or Atticus. I still want..."

"I'm not ready to come back."

"I know." He set down the cat carrier. The Persian immediately huffed and curled into a circle. "I just wanted you to know I'm still swimming too. Even if it's in different water."

They sat like that for a long time, legs in the pool, a borrowed cat between them, the water holding Elena up the way she'd once held them both.