The Pool Where We Drowned

The papaya sat untouched on the white ceramic plate, its orange flesh glistening with morning dew. Marcus had ordered it for me—knew it was my favorite—or perhaps he'd ordered it for the woman he thought I used to be three years ago, before everything between us curdled into something unrecognizable.

We were at the resort in Palm Springs, his attempt at resuscitation. A last-ditch effort, he'd called it, packing our suitcases with the desperate optimism of a man who doesn't yet understand that some things don't come back.

The palm fronds above our terrace cast long, skeleton shadows across the table. I watched a lizard skitter along the rim of the plant pot, its movements quick and purposeful. Everything here moved with intention except us.

"You haven't touched your fruit," Marcus said. He was wearing that linen shirt I'd bought him for his birthday, the one that made his shoulders look broader, his jawline sharper. He was still beautiful. That was almost worse than if he'd become unrecognizable too.

"Not hungry."

"We could go to the pool today. Like we used to."

Like we used to. The phrase hung between us, heavy and suffocating. Swimming had once been our language—silent and rhythmic, the way we'd slice through the water together, our movements synchronized without thought. We'd met at a university pool, both of us avoiding our thesis advisors, both of us ducking beneath the surface when the world demanded too much.

Now, the pool downstairs shimmered with the reflected light of a hundred strangers' vacations. Children screamed. Lounge chairs claimed territories with towels and paperbacks.

"I don't want to swim," I said.

Marcus's fingers tightened around his coffee cup. "Then what do you want, Elena? Because I'm trying here. I'm in the desert. I'm eating breakfast at eight AM. I'm doing everything."

"That's just it," I said, and the terrible clarity of it hit me all at once. "You're doing everything. Performing. This whole trip—it's a performance of the version of us you want back. But that version? She drowned while you were busy becoming someone who fixes things."

A waiter appeared to refill my water glass, neither of us speaking, the silence stretching thin and dangerous.

"I'm going for a swim," Marcus said finally, standing up. His chair scraped against the patio tiles. He didn't look back as he walked toward the pool, his figure growing smaller between the palm trees, until the water swallowed him whole.

I took a bite of the papaya. It was perfectly ripe, sweet and musky and nothing like I remembered.