The Color of Goodbye

The sun was setting behind the hills, painting the sky in shades of burnt orange. Maria sat at the edge of the hotel pool, her feet dangling in the water, nursing a drink she'd barely touched. Three days ago, she'd walked out on fifteen years of marriage. Now she was somewhere in Arizona, trying to remember who she was before she became someone's wife.

Her hair—once a source of pride, long and dark—felt foreign against her neck. Richard had always loved it loose. Last week, she'd cut it all off. The stylist had asked if she was sure. Maria had nodded, watching dark locks fall to the floor like shed skin.

The pool reflected the dying light, its surface rippling softly. Empty lounge chairs surrounded it like abandoned monuments to leisure. She'd splurged on this room, this view. Her first act of complete selfishness in two decades.

Her phone buzzed. Richard. Again.

Forty messages in three days. Some begging. Some angry. The last one had simply read: You're being stubborn as a bull, Maria. Come home.

She'd always hated that about him—the way he reduced her complexities to character flaws, the way he assumed stubbornness was what drove her away rather than the slow erosion of self that had been happening for years. The bull in the china shop of her own life.

An older man in swim trunks climbed out of the pool. He smiled politely as he passed.

"Water's nice," he said.

Maria nodded. She hadn't come here to swim.

The orange light faded into purple, then gray. She finished her drink—something tropical and too sweet—and stood up. The room key felt heavy in her palm. Tomorrow she'd drive home. Not to him. To the apartment she'd secretly leased last month. The one with the orange kitchen she'd loved instantly.

She touched her short hair. It felt like freedom.