The Poolside Afterlife

Elena sat on the edge of the hotel pool, legs dangling in the chlorinated water, watching her husband Marcus sleep on the lounge chair. He'd been asleep for hours, waking only to order room service—spinach salad, hold the onions, hold his interest in anything she said.

She felt like a zombie lately, moving through her marriage with her brains mostly missing, going through motions she'd perfected over twelve years. Her hair, once the chestnut shade he'd claimed to love her for, now showed threads of silver she couldn't decide whether to dye or embrace as evidence of survival.

"Premium cable in every room," the brochure had promised. She'd spent the previous night clicking through channels that offered nothing but escapism she couldn't afford. Marcus beside her, snoring softly, undisturbed by her insomnia, her restlessness, the quiet collapse occurring beside him.

They'd come here to reconnect. That was the polite fiction. The truth was darker: she'd given him an ultimatum after finding text messages on his phone. Not affairs—worse, in some ways. He was planning a life that didn't include her. Career moves she wasn't consulted on. Apartment listings in cities they'd never discussed.

Now she watched children splashing in the shallow end, parents dividing attention between phones and offspring, everyone present and absent simultaneously. The pool reflected the dying light, water fracturing into gold and pink and the peculiar blue of artificial things.

Marcus stirred, blinked at her. "You joining me?" he asked, patting the empty space on his lounge chair.

"No," she said. "I think I'm done treading water."

She stood, water dripping from her legs, and walked toward their room. Behind her, Marcus's phone buzzed on the small table between their chairs. She didn't look back.