The Pool Where We Drowned

The swimming pool shimmered in the darkness, its surface broken only by the ripples of our silence. Maya sat on the edge, her legs dangling in the water, while I stood behind her with two glasses of orange juice we'd both forgotten to drink.

"You're going to do it anyway," she said, not turning around. "The promotion. The move to Chicago."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is." She splashed the water with her foot. "Remember when we bought this house? The pool was the selling point. We said we'd have parties. Teach the kids to swim."

I set the glasses down on the patio table. "We don't have kids."

"That's not the point."

Lightning cracked across the sky—a sudden, violent fracture that illuminated the empty lounge chairs, the pool toys we'd stopped using years ago, Maya's face turned toward me in that moment of brightness. She looked tired. We both did.

"The offer came yesterday," I said. "It's what we've been planning for. My career, your freelance work—Chicago makes sense."

"Three years ago, it made sense. Last year, even. Now?" She stood up, water dripping from her legs onto the concrete. "Now I wonder if we're just moving boxes instead of building a life."

The air grew thick with approaching rain. I could taste ozone, that metallic charge that precedes a storm.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that pool we dreamed about has been sitting empty for months. That we sleep in separate rooms more often than not. That you've already packed your bags in your head."

Another flash of lightning, closer this time. The storm would break any minute.

"Maya—"

"Don't." She walked toward the house, leaving wet footprints on the pavement. "Just tell me one thing. If you took the Chicago job tomorrow, would you ask me to come?"

The question hung in the air like the moment before thunder.

"Yes," I said, but the word felt hollow.

She nodded once, already knowing the answer wasn't enough. "Then I'll pack my own bags."

The first drops of rain began to fall, dark spots appearing on the concrete around the empty glasses of orange juice, their contents slowly warming in the summer night we'd both forgotten how to share.