The Dead Float

Marcus floated in the pool, arms spread like a dead man, watching the orange sky bruise itself purple. The resort's infinity pool dissolved into the Pacific, a trick of perspective he found cruel. He'd been swimming laps for an hour—back and forth, back and forth—trying to exhaust himself enough to sleep through another night in the king bed beside Eleanor.

She sat at the edge now, legs dangling in the water, slicing into a papaya with clinical precision. The fruit's flesh burned sunset orange against her pale fingers. She'd bought it at the market that morning, when they'd still been pretending this anniversary trip might save them.

"You've been out here forever," she said, not looking up. "Come eat."

Marcus didn't move. He felt like a zombie, shuffling through the motions of a marriage that had died somewhere between her promotion and his father's funeral. Neither of them had pulled the plug. Neither would admit they were already rotting from the inside.

"Remember when we learned to swim together?" he asked, staring at the reflected moon. "That YMCA pool smelled like chlorine and bandaids."

Eleanor stopped cutting. "That was twelve years ago, Marcus. You can't live in memory lanes."

"I'm not living anywhere," he said, and the truth of it cracked something open in his chest. "I'm dead, El. We both are. Just too comfortable in the grave to climb out."

She set down the papaya. The juice ran down her wrist like something dying. For a long moment, only the distant sound of waves filled the space between them.

Then she slid into the pool, clothes and all, and swam to him. Water weighed down her silk dress. She took his floating hands in hers.

"Then let's drown properly," she said, "or learn to breathe water. But stop floating in the middle."