The Pool Where We Float

Miranda stood at the edge of the apartment complex pool, clutching her martini like a lifeline. The water shimmered with that artificial blue that pool chemistry achieves, the same blue as the maternity dress she'd never worn. Five years of marriage dissolved into mediation papers and a separate apartment. She'd kept the cat—Barnaby, who now stared at her from the third-floor balcony, orange eyes judging.

"Your hat," someone said behind her.

She turned. It was David, her husband—ex-husband? The papers weren't final. He held her straw hat, the one she'd worn to their rehearsal dinner, when they'd been stupid enough to think love could survive graduate school and infertility treatments and his mother's subtle campaigns.

"Thanks." She took it, fingers brushing. The same electric jolt, which only made everything worse. "I didn't think you'd come."

"Annual building party. Free drinks." He shrugged. "Also, the dog misses you."

They'd gotten a dog last year, trying to fill the hollow spaces. Instead, the beagle—Rocket—had become another shared responsibility, another thing to negotiate. Rocket was probably at David's feet right now, waiting for dropped appetizers.

"You could have kept him, you know."

"You love him more. Besides, my place doesn't allow pets."

Silence stretched between them, heavy with everything unsaid. The pool reflected the sunset—burning orange, the color of the evening they'd met, the color of her mother's lipstick at the wedding, the color of the folder that held their divorce settlement.

"Do you ever think about—" David started.

"Don't."

He nodded. "Right. The statute of limitations on that conversation expired in March."

A dog barked somewhere—Rocket, definitely. Guests laughed behind them. The host's orange cat wound between Miranda's legs, purring, oblivious to human catastrophes. She knelt to pet it, buying time, buying breath.

When she stood, David was watching her with that expression she'd memorized, the one that meant he was remembering things he'd promised to forget. "I saw you bought orange juice," he said quietly. "The kind with pulp."

"It's cheaper now."

"You hate pulp."

"I'm learning to like things I hate. Character development."

He laughed, a short exhale. "You always did have a dark sense of humor."

The pool lights flickered on, artificial stars in suburban darkness. Around them, couples clung to each other, drunk on sangria and the illusion that marriages last forever. Miranda adjusted her hat, suddenly aware of how ridiculous she must look—fully dressed at a pool party, wedding dress white in a sea of bikinis.

"I should go," she said.

"Rocket misses you," he repeated. "I do too."

She walked away, toward the building, toward the apartment that wasn't home but would have to do. Behind her, she heard him order another drink, his voice steady. She didn't look back. Some things you don't survive by facing head-on. You learn to swim sideways, like the cat that drinks from the pool but never jumps in. You learn that even love—maybe especially love—eventually sinks.