The Pool at Midnight

The pool at the Hampton Inn was empty, which was exactly what Elena needed. She'd checked in at 2 AM after leaving Mark—the final time, she told herself, though she'd lost count of the "final times" over their seven years together. Her room had smelled like someone else's bad decisions, so she'd come down here in her silk slip, still clutching the wine bottle she'd grabbed from their kitchen.

Now she sat on the concrete edge, feet dangling in the chlorinated water, watching the blue light ripple across the surface. Somewhere in the distance, a cat yowled—a lonely, desperate sound that echoed in her chest. She remembered the tabby they'd found together, how Mark had insisted they keep it despite her allergies, how he'd been the one to take it to the shelter when they moved to the city for his promotion. "It's just a cat," he'd said, but it had been the first crack in the glass.

She took a long drink from the bottle, cheap merlot staining her lips. The pool's bottom was painted with that same blue they'd chosen for the nursery—the one they'd never finished filling. The goldfish bowl had sat on the windowsill for months, a single orange fish swimming in lonely circles until the day she came home to find it floating. Mark had said she forgot to feed it. She knew he'd stopped bothering months ago.

"You okay down there?"

Elena jumped, nearly dropping the bottle. A man stood at the pool gate—maybe forty, in a wrinkled dress shirt and loosened tie, carrying his own bottle of something amber. She hadn't heard him approach.

"Depends on your definition," she said.

He unlocked the gate and stepped inside, sat on the opposite edge. They regarded each other across the water—two strangers in the fluorescent blue light, both clearly running from something.

"My wife's having an affair with my business partner," he offered, like he was commenting on the weather. "I found the texts three days ago. Been driving ever since."

Elena huffed a surprised laugh. "I finally left my husband after he forgot our anniversary. Fourth year in a row."

"Ouch."

"Yeah."

The cat yowled again, closer this time. A shadow moved along the fence line—calico, thin, watching them with calculating eyes.

"You think he's hungry?" the man asked.

"Or lonely," Elena said. "Aren't we all."

They sat in companionable silence for a long moment, the water lapping at their ankles, the cat watching from the darkness. The air was thick with unsaid things, with the weight of endings and the terrifying possibility of beginnings.

"I'm David," he said finally.

"Elena."

"You want to get breakfast? There's a diner next door."

She looked at him—at his tired eyes, his crooked smile, the way he seemed as broken and hopeful as she felt. The cat slipped through the fence, padded to the water's edge, and dipped a paw in tentatively.

"Yes," Elena said, surprising herself. "But first—" She reached into her purse, pulled out the granola bar she'd packed for what she thought would be a lonely drive, broke it in half, and extended a piece to the cat. "Company for company."

The cat accepted. So did David. And somewhere in the chlorinated water, under the harsh fluorescent lights, something in Elena finally began to heal.