The Pool Where We Drowned

The hotel pool at midnight was a perfect rectangle of black water, the surface broken only by my laps. I'd been swimming for hours, chasing the kind of exhaustion that would quiet my mind. Sarah and I had been running on fumes for months — our marriage, once vibrant, had become a zombie of itself: technically alive, but hollowed out, moving through motions without heart.

She was watching from a lounge chair, the ember of her cigarette glowing like a warning light. "You're avoiding the conversation," she said, her voice flat.

"I'm swimming," I said, surfacing at the pool's edge. "There's a difference."

"A fox can only outrun the hounds for so long before it has to turn and fight." She crushed the cigarette. "That assistant of yours — the redhead who laughs too loud at your jokes — she's been texting you at midnight."

I pulled myself out of the water, dripping onto the concrete. The night air was cold against my skin.

"I haven't responded," I said, but the denial felt flimsy even as I spoke it.

"But you haven't blocked her either." Sarah stood, her silhouette sharp against the city lights. "We're running in circles, David. This pool? These late-night escapes? They're just you swimming away from something you're afraid to face."

The zombie of our love lurched between us — not dead, not alive, just lingering in the terrible in-between. I thought of the fox she'd mentioned, clever and quick, and wondered if I was the hunter or the prey.

Some truths are like deep water: terrifying to enter, but eventually you have to take the plunge.

"I'm sorry," I said, and for the first time in months, I meant it.

Sarah didn't respond. She just walked back toward the hotel room, leaving me alone with the pool and the realization that sometimes, the only way out is through.