The Drowning Season

Elena sat on the edge of the bathtub watching the water rise, her iPhone balanced precariously on the porcelain sink. Two missed calls from David. One voicemail she couldn't bring herself to play.

She swallowed her vitamin D supplement with a glass of lukewarm tap water—the doctor had warned her about deficiency at thirty-five, another sign her body was already beginning its slow betrayal. She'd always thought thirty-five would feel different. More solid. Less like she was waiting for her real life to begin.

The television in the bedroom droned—she'd left it on the baseball channel after watching last night's game, the cable connection fuzzy and intermittent like everything else these days. She remembered sitting in this same apartment with her father twenty years ago, watching the World Series, him explaining the strategy behind each pitch while she'd pretended to understand.

Her phone vibrated again. The screen cracked last week when she'd dropped it getting out of the cab—another small casualty in what was becoming a battlefield of ordinary disappointments. David wanted to talk about "the future," as if discussing it could somehow make it less terrifying.

She reached for her phone and let her hand hover over it. The water in the tub had grown cold. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the crack of a bat from the television, the crowd's roar muffled by the closed door. Her vitamin D bottle sat empty on the counter, its orange label peeling at the corner.

Elena stood up and drained the tub, watching the water spiral down in patterns she couldn't predict. She didn't pick up the phone. Instead, she walked into the bedroom and turned off the television, leaving the room in sudden silence that felt louder than any crowd noise could ever be.

Some seasons end whether you're ready for them to or not.