The Pool at Midnight

The padel courts were empty by the time she slipped out of their villa, the echo of their argument still ringing in her ears. 'You're never present,' he'd said, as if presence was something she could simply choose.

She found herself at the edge of the infinity pool, the water reflecting the moon like spilled mercury. This was supposed to be their second honeymoon—twenty years later, trying to remember why they'd chosen each other. But all she could think about was the miscarriage six months ago, the one he'd already stopped mourning.

A cat emerged from the shadows, calico and deliberate, jumping onto the lounge chair beside her. It watched her with that infuriating feline calm, as if it knew secrets she couldn't speak aloud.

'Dinner was awful,' she whispered to the cat. 'He had spinach stuck in his teeth through the entire conversation about whether we should try again.' The cat blinked, unimpressed by her suburban tragedy.

She stripped off her robe and stepped into the pool. The water was shocking, alive, and for a moment she considered just sinking. Letting the water take what the doctors couldn't.

But then she thought about her sister, who'd lost her husband last year. Who would give anything to have someone to argue with about spinach and fertility treatments and padel lessons at overpriced resorts.

She swam to the other side, her arms cutting through the water with renewed purpose. The cat watched from the edge, its tail flicking with what looked almost like approval.

When she returned to the villa, he was asleep. She curled around him, smelling chlorine and expensive cologne and the faint metallic scent of the spinach garnish from dinner. They would wake up and play padel and pretend nothing was broken. Some days, that was enough.