The Dead Season
The resort pool shimmered like a dropped coin in the underbelly of the midday heat. Elena sat on the edge, her legs submerged in water that felt too warm, like bathwater that had been sitting too long. She'd left her straw hat on the chaise lounge, a wide-brimmed white thing that had seemed so sophisticated when she'd bought it for this trip.
Richard was at the bar, nursing what had to be his third scotch. His back was to her, but she could see the slight slump of his shoulders, the way his spine curved — a posture she'd memorized over fifteen years of marriage, but couldn't remember when it had started looking like defeat.
She pressed her palm against the pool's bottom, feeling the grit of something someone had dropped. A hair tie, maybe. Evidence of other lives, other marriages that had passed through this place.
"You know," Richard said, suddenly beside her, handing her a drink she hadn't asked for, "I feel like I've been walking through my own life like a zombie for the last five years."
The words hit her harder than she expected. Not because she hadn't noticed — she had, God, she had — but because he'd finally said it aloud. The hat lay abandoned on the lounge chair, a white flag of surrender.
"I know," she said, and watched something flicker behind his eyes. Relief, maybe. Or perhaps the dawning recognition that she'd been dead too, in her own way.
"So what now?" he asked, sitting beside her, not touching her, not moving away.
The water lapped against her calves, a small, rhythmic comfort. She thought about their daughter, away at college. About the mortgage, the friends they shared, the life that fit them both like a shrunken sweater — familiar, constricting, impossible to wear.
"We could start with another drink," she said. "And then we figure out if we want to wake up or let each other sleep."
Richard nodded slowly. He took her hand, his palm warm and calloused, and for the first time in years, the touch didn't feel like reflex. It felt like a question she was finally ready to answer.