The Pool at Midnight

The pool was silent, save for the gentle lapping of water against the tile edges. David stood waist-deep in the heated water, fully clothed in his suit, the fabric heavy and clinging. In his right hand, he gripped his iPhone like a lifeline, though he hadn't looked at it in twenty minutes.

The hat floated beside him—a straw fedora he'd bought with Elena in Mexico three years ago, now abandoned on the water's surface like a tiny boat without a captain. She'd left it on the nightstand when she walked out six weeks ago. He'd been swimming every night since, trying to exhaust himself enough to sleep without dreaming of her laugh.

"Buster," David called softly, and the golden retriever's head popped up from the deep end. The dog paddled toward him, eyes bright, completely unaware that his family had dissolved around him. That was the hell of it—the dog still loved him unconditionally, while Elena couldn't even look him in the eye when she said the words.

The iPhone buzzed in his hand. Another email from HR, probably. The acquisition negotiations had dragged on for months, and now his business partners wanted him at the table, shaking hands and signing papers. But how could he care about market share and retention metrics when his marriage had failed its retention metrics spectacularly?

He swam to the edge, dragging the hat with him. Buster followed, pressing his wet body against David's legs. They stayed like that for a long time, man and dog beneath the strange indoor sky, while messages and calls and voicemails accumulated on the phone like silt at the bottom of a river.

David placed the fedora on his wet hair. Water dripped down his face. He pressed the phone's power button, and the screen went dark.

"Buster," he said, "want to go get a burger?"

The dog barked, and for the first time in six weeks, David didn't feel like he was drowning anymore.