The Color of Almost

The divorce papers sat on the kitchen counter beside an orange she'd peeled three days ago. The rind had started to brown at the edges, much like their marriage—something that had once been vibrant and full of promise now quietly decomposing in the fluorescent light of their suburban kitchen.

Mark found himself at the community pool at 6 AM, swimming laps before work. The water was a shock of cold against his skin, the only thing that could still make him feel something. He'd played baseball in college, third base, always ready for the line drive. But this—this slow-motion drowning of a life he'd built for fifteen years—there was no fielding position for that. No coach had ever taught him how to stand at the plate while your wife told you she'd never really loved you, not like that, not like the movies promised.

The lifeguard watched him from the elevated chair, probably wondering why this forty-three-year-old man was doing laps with such desperate intensity. Mark's shoulder screamed from the repetitive motion. He used to have a pitcher's arm. Now he had alimony payments and a townhouse that was too big for one person.

His daughter had played shortstop until she discovered boys and weed and the particular thrill of disappointing her parents. Last time they'd spoken, she'd called him from a gas station somewhere in Ohio, asking for money like she was asking for the time. He'd sent it, of course. You keep swinging even when the pitch is wild.

The pool lights flickered on as dawn broke through the high windows. Mark pulled himself from the water, his body heavy with that peculiar exhaustion that comes from emotional rather than physical exertion. He sat on the bench, dripping onto the concrete, watching an old man in the corner of the pool doing water aerobics.

The orange rind would still be on the counter when he got home. Eventually, he'd have to throw it away. Eventually, he'd have to sign the papers. Eventually, he'd have to learn to live in a world where almost everything he'd believed in had turned out to be optional.

But for now, there was the smell of chlorine, the ache in his shoulder, and the terrible quiet of a Friday morning in America.