The Pool Where We Drowned Ourselves

The apartment complex pool was empty at 3 AM, the water still and black as coffee. Maya sat on the edge, legs dangling in, clutching her ex-husband's fedora like some grieving cartoon character from a noir film she'd never bothered to watch.

"You're going to catch pneumonia," called a voice from the shadows. A woman emerged—lean, sharp-featured, with hair the color of flame. This was the fox their building manager had warned everyone about: Lena, who seduced husbands and wives alike, who borrowed sugar and never returned it, who left cigarette burns on the communal balcony furniture.

"I don't care," Maya said. "I'm just sitting here."

Lena sat beside her, close enough that Maya could smell expensive gin and whatever perfume announced itself before its wearer entered a room. "That's his hat, isn't it? The one who left."

"He didn't leave. I made him leave."

"Same thing."

Maya turned the hat over in her hands. It had been a stupid purchase—a fedora, for God's sake, like he thought he was Humphrey Bogart instead of a mid-level actuary who collected vintage wristwatches and forgot anniversaries. But she'd bought it for him, spent three weeks' worth of saved lunch money, and the way his face had lit up... that was the vitamin deficiency she'd been trying to cure. That particular lack. That hunger.

"He's happier now," Maya said. "With her. The yoga instructor who doesn't believe in marriage."

"Some women collect husbands like vitamins," Lena said, pulling a flask from her jacket pocket. "One for this, one for that. Never enough, always something missing." She took a swig, offered it to Maya. "You want to know what I think?"

"Not really."

"You're not sad he's gone. You're sad you didn't leave first."

The words hit like water in the lungs. Maya stared at the pool's surface, at her own distorted reflection rippling there. She thought about the betting pool at work—how much they'd each put on her marriage lasting another year. The friendly wagers. The quiet cruelty.

"You know what's funny?" Maya said, finally. "I feel light. I feel like I could float."

Lena stood up, brushed imaginary lint from her silk dress. "Then do it. Float." She paused. "Or jump. Your call."

Maya looked at the hat one last time, then set it carefully on the concrete beside the pool. She stood, took the flask, drank. The gin burned like truth.

"I think," she said, "I'm going to go home and sleep for a week. Then I'm going to buy myself something ridiculous."

"Good," Lena said. "You've got terrible taste in hats."

Maya laughed—really laughed—for the first time in months. The pool reflected it back, tiny silver rinks of amusement spreading across the dark water.