The Drowning Pool

Maria stood on the balcony of the Marriott suite, watching the pool below. The water glowed an artificial turquoise, smooth as glass, while couples swam languid laps in the October chill. She could see David down there—her husband of twelve years—floating on his back, starfished, staring up at something she couldn't see.

Inside, on the nightstand, sat his vitamin regimen: D3 for mood, B-complex for energy, magnesium for sleep. A rainbow of promises in pill form. He'd started them three months ago, around the time he'd begun working late, around the time their conversations had reduced to logistics and weather.

"You seem tired," he'd told her last night, instead of

The worst part was the cable bill she'd found—charges for hotel rooms in three cities, all on nights he'd claimed to be working late. She'd called the hotel in Phoenix. Yes, a David Chen had stayed there. Yes, with a woman.

David climbed out of the pool, dripping wet. He looked up at the balcony and saw her. He didn't wave. He just stood there, exposed, while somewhere in the distance, a cable car climbed a mountain she'd never see, carrying people toward destinations she'd never know.

She touched the vitamin bottle. The pills rattled like artificial rain. Maybe she'd start taking them too. Maybe they'd help her forget what she knew, or remember what she'd lost.

"Maria?" His voice floated up, small and distant. "Maria, come down."

She closed the curtains instead.