The Pool at Midnight

The pool at the Marquis Hotel was empty at 2 AM, which was exactly why Elena sat on its edge, her bare feet skimming the dark water. She'd left the fundraiser three hours ago—too many men in expensive suits explaining the economy to her, too many of them wearing the same kind of hat her father had worn the day he left.

She reached into her clutch and pulled out the small plastic bag containing her daughter's goldfish, now floating listlessly in its temporary home. Sarah had won it at the carnival, beaming with pride, then forgotten it existed within twenty-four hours. Elena had promised to 'take care of it' before school on Monday.

The irony wasn't lost on her. She was forty-three years old, a partner at her firm, a woman who negotiated million-dollar contracts before breakfast, and she was about to flush a goldfish down a toilet because she couldn't bear to disappoint a seven-year-old who wouldn't remember its name by Tuesday.

The market crash of '08 had taught her something about holding on too long. She'd watched her clients cling to sinking stocks, paralyzed by the hope that things would turn around. Sometimes you had to accept the loss and move forward.

'Nice night for it.'

Elena jumped. A man in his fifties stood at the pool gate, wearing a hotel robe and carrying a glass of amber something. He had the kind of face that suggested he'd once been handsome but life had worn down the sharp edges—the way a river stone becomes smooth, or maybe just how a man becomes after enough years of bearing things he never spoke about.

'I'm not actually swimming,' she said, realizing how ridiculous she must look.

He nodded at the plastic bag. 'That's not going to make it till Monday.'

'No,' she said. 'It's not.' She hesitated. 'I was going to... you know.' She mimed flushing with her hand.

The man laughed softly. 'My ex-wife flushed my biography down the toilet, metaphorically speaking. Left me with the kids and a manuscript she said was 'too honest.' He stepped closer. 'You want to know what's funny? I've sold more copies than I would have if she'd let me publish it as-is. Sometimes the things we discard come back to us.' He looked at the fish. 'What's its name?'