The Chlorine Hour

The pool water glowed that artificial, impossible blue—the color of a promise you know will be broken. Maya sat on the edge, feet submerged, at 2 AM on a Tuesday, because grief didn't keep office hours and insomnia didn't respect the weekday/weekend divide.

The dog, Barnaby—her ex-husband's dog, technically, though David hadn't walked him since the miscarriage, hadn't seemed to remember Barnaby existed unless the dog inconveniently needed something—sat beside her, his warm flank pressing against her thigh. David's lawyer had mentioned custody in the same breath as the furniture. Asset division. Barnaby, lumped in with the IKEA sofa.

She wasn't swimming. She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually swum. Just drifted. Float on her back and stare up at the apartment complex's security cameras, wondering who monitored the footage at this hour, whether somewhere there was a security guard watching a woman contemplate the void while a golden retriever offered quiet comfort.

Tomorrow she'd meet David at the mediator's office. They'd divide their shared life into his and hers, like you could split a decade in half without both pieces dying. The apartment pool—their apartment complex, where they'd signed the lease three months after the wedding, giddy with domestic fantasies—felt like visiting a crime scene.

Barnaby whined, nosed her hand. His unconditional love felt intolerable suddenly, the weight of a goodness she hadn't earned.

"I'm sorry," she told him, and didn't know which of them she meant.

Somewhere above, a balcony door slid open. A laugh. The sound of someone else's life continuing. She pulled her feet from the water, dripping onto the concrete. The trail evaporated in seconds, like nothing had ever been there at all.

"Come on," she said to the dog. "Home."

They'd both sleep on David's side of the bed tonight, because the apartment was half-empty anyway, and sometimes you had to practice the loss before you could survive it.