The Pool's Edge

Margaret stood at the edge of the hotel pool at 3 AM, the water still and black as obsidian. At 47, she'd flown to Cabo for what Marcus had called a 'trial separation'—his polished way of announcing he'd found someone younger, someone whose hair didn't need regular appointments at the salon to maintain its color.

She'd considered jumping in fully clothed, dramatic and final. Instead she'd settled for removing her jewelry—necklace, earrings, the diamond watch that felt like a shackle—and placing them on a nearby lounge chair.

'You're thinking about it,' a voice rumbled from the shadows.

She jumped. A man emerged from the pool house, his silhouette massive and imposing. He was perhaps sixty, with a thick mane of white hair and shoulders that had once borne heavy loads. He held two glasses of amber liquid.

'Bull,' he said, extending a hand. 'Short for Buchanan, but the kids at the firm gave me the nickname twenty years ago. Apparently I charge through problems.' He gestured to the empty chair beside her. 'Mind if I join?'

'Margaret,' she said, accepting the drink. 'And what brings you to the pool at 3 AM, Bull?'

'My wife's inside, sleeping. We come here every year. Thirty-four years.' He swirled his drink. 'She doesn't know about the hair, you know.'

'My husband just left me,' Margaret found herself saying. 'For someone whose hair hasn't started going gray yet.' It was the first time she'd said it aloud.

Bull nodded slowly. 'Twenty years ago, I was making seven figures. Thought I was king of the world. Then the market crashed, and I lost everything. My hair started going white practically overnight.' He touched his thick white mane. 'Martha stayed. She said she loved me, not the money. But last year I found her crying because she's the one paying for our vacations now. She still dyes her hair, still pretends we're who we were.'

Margaret looked at him—really looked. Behind the bravado and bull-like confidence, she saw exhaustion, a man carrying the weight of his own diminished glory.

'You should tell her,' Margaret said. 'That you know.'

'Should you call him?' Bull countered gently.

They sat in silence as the pool lights flickered off, leaving them in darkness. Margaret finished her drink, feeling something loosen in her chest.

'No,' she said finally. 'I think I'll go back to my room and sleep. And tomorrow, I'll make an appointment to let my hair go gray.'

Bull smiled, a genuine crinkling around his eyes. 'Good. That's the bull in you—charging forward.'