The Chlorine and Ash

The pool hall smelled of stale beer and poor decisions, which seemed appropriate. Marcus hadn't touched a cue since the divorce, but here he was, standing across from David—the friend who'd slept with his wife.

"You look like shit," David said, not unkindly.

Marcus fingered the vitamin bottle in his pocket. His doctor had prescribed them after the cancer scare, a little chemical Band-Aid for mortality. "Been better."

They played in silence, the click of balls echoing like gunshots. Marcus kept thinking about that baseball game, twenty years ago—bottom of the ninth, two outs, David pitching, Marcus at bat. The friendship had been so simple then. Just boys and dirt and summer stretching forever.

"She's leaving him," David said suddenly, chalk dusting his fingers. "Elena."

The pool balls scattered. Marcus missed his shot.

"Why are you telling me this?"

David leaned against the table, looking older than Marcus remembered. "Because I'm dying, Marc. Liver cancer. Three months, maybe four."

The vitamin bottle burned in Marcus's pocket. All those supplements, all that desperate belief that you could cheat death if you swallowed enough pills.

"I don't know what to say," Marcus whispered.

"Say you'll come to the pool with me. Just like old times. I can't drive anymore."

The community pool was closed when they arrived, the water still and reflecting the moon. They stripped to their boxers and slid in, the chlorine stinging their eyes. For a moment, they were just boys again, treading water in the dark.

"I'm sorry," David said. "About Elena. About everything."

Marcus floated on his back, staring at the stars. "Baseball was easier, wasn't it? Three strikes, you're out. Simple rules."

"Yeah." David's voice cracked. "But sometimes you get a fourth at-bat."

Marcus treaded water over to him, reached out, and for the first time in two years, they shook hands beneath the surface—two old friends learning how to swim in deep water.