The Chlorine and Silence

Marcus stood at the edge of the pool at 2 AM, the water still as glass except for the gentle ripples from the filtration system. Three months since the funeral, and sleep remained as elusive as the answers he'd stopped seeking.

He'd been taking that vitamin D supplement every morning since—Dr. Patel's orders after she noticed how gray his skin had become. 'Sunlight substitute,' she'd called it, as if a pill could replace Sunday mornings at the baseball field with Tommy, beers sweating onto the dugout bench while they dissected each other's failed marriages.

The divorce had been final for six months. Sarah had moved to Portland. Tommy had died two weeks later, heart attack at forty-seven, slumped over in his cubicle at the insurance firm where they'd worked together for twenty years.

Marcus slipped into the pool, the chlorine shocking his skin like a baptism he hadn't asked for. This was Tommy's house now—well, Tommy's widow's house. Elena had given him a key, said he could use the pool whenever he couldn't sleep. She was kind like that. Kinder than he deserved.

They'd been the three musketees once. Then Marcus had slept with Elena after Tommy's promotion party in 2019. They'd never spoken of it again. Tommy never knew. That was the thing about secrets—they grew teeth.

He floated on his back, staring at the moon overhead. Tonight he'd found the old baseball in his glove compartment, the one Tommy had signed: 'To my oldest friend. Remember: you can't steal first base.' A joke about how cautious Marcus had become, how afraid of risk.

The vitamin bottle sat on his kitchen counter next to the unsigned divorce papers. Sarah had wanted him to fight for them. He hadn't.

Marcus pulled himself from the water, his body heavy with something he couldn't name. He'd stop by Elena's tomorrow. Tell her about the baseball. About everything. It was time to stop taking substitutes for the real thing.