The Chlorine and the Storm

The vitamin D supplement sat on the nightstand, a daily reminder of her insistence that we weren't getting enough sun. Now, alone in this hotel room three months after she left, I still took it every morning with water from the plastic pitcher. Some rituals survive even when the reason for them doesn't.

I walked down to the pool at dusk, the hour when families retreated and the space became haunted by lone swimmers and existential thoughts. The water was still, too blue to be natural, reflecting the fluorescent lights in distorted ripples. I'd taken up running again — she'd always hated how I'd go for a run instead of staying in bed, but now the rhythm of my shoes on pavement was the only thing that could quiet my mind.

A woman sat at the edge of the pool, her legs dangling in the chlorinated water. She looked like Sarah from behind, the same curve of spine, the same way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking.

"Storm's coming," she said without turning around.

Outside, lightning fractured the sky, and for a moment the pool went white. The thunder followed seconds later, rattling the glass doors.

"My wife used to love storms," I found myself saying. "She'd stand at the window and say they made her feel alive."

The woman turned. Not Sarah. Of course not. She was maybe thirty-five, with eyes that had seen enough disappointment to stop hoping for better.

"Ex-husband?" she asked.

"Soon to be."

She nodded, then slipped into the water with a clean dive that barely disturbed the surface. I watched her swim laps, each stroke precise and measured, and thought about how we all develop our ways of staying afloat.

The lightning flashed again, illuminating the empty chair beside me where Sarah should have been sitting, complaining about the chlorine smell while secretly loving it.

Some days you run toward things. Some days you run away. And some days, you just learn to tread water until your legs give out.