The Chlorine and Time

Marcus found him by the pool at 3 AM, exactly where he said he'd be. The automated lights had dimmed to a bruised purple, casting shadows that made the water look viscous, thick as old memory.

"You came," Daniel said, not turning. His shirt was soaked through. He must have been sitting there for hours.

"Of course I came. You texted me. What friend ignores a 2 AM message that just says 'please'?"

Daniel laughed, but the sound was hollow, stripped of resonance. "That's the thing about being a zombie, Marc. You don't realize you're dead until someone points it out."

Marcus sank into the lounge chair beside him. The humidity pressed against his skin. The palm fronds above them whispered in a wind that touched nothing else, an acoustic illusion from the resort's sound system.

"You're not dead, Dan. You're grieving. There's a difference."

"Is there?" Daniel turned finally. His eyes were rimmed with red, pupils blown wide. "I haven't felt real since the funeral. I go to work. I come home. I eat. I sleep. The motions are there but the meaning is..." He gestured vaguely at the pool. "Gone."

Marcus thought about the spinach lasagna Daniel had made for him three weeks ago, his first attempt at cooking since Sarah died. It had been overcooked, the sauce burned at the edges, but he'd insisted Marcus take the leftovers. A desperate kindness.

"The meaning comes back," Marcus said. "Sarah wouldn't want you to—"

"Don't." Daniel's voice cracked. "Just don't."

They sat in silence. A moth beat itself against the light fixture, a small, persistent violence.

"I keep thinking," Daniel said, "that if I stay in this chair long enough, the sun will come up and I'll be different. Better. Like this is something you can wait out."

Marcus didn't tell him that's what he'd thought too, after Elena. He didn't say that three years later, he still sometimes woke up surprised she wasn't beside him.

"Come inside," Marcus said instead. "Let's order room service. Let you eat something that isn't grief."

Daniel looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time all night. "The spinach salad," he said, almost smiling. "You always order the spinach salad."

"I have a reputation to maintain."

"Yeah," Daniel said, standing slowly. "You do. My reputation as a functioning adult, on the other hand..."

"We'll rebuild it," Marcus said. "One overpriced hotel salad at a time."

They walked toward the glass doors, the pool behind them still and dark. Somewhere, a new day was beginning.