The Poolside Lie

The water in the hotel pool shimmered like liquid emerald under the desert sun. David sat on the edge, legs submerged up to his calves, nursing a gin and tonic that had gone watery twenty minutes ago. His iPhone vibrated against the lounge chair—the third time in ten minutes.

He knew who it was. Sarah. She'd sent eight texts since he'd told her he needed 'space' at the conference. He hadn't mentioned the part about deciding to leave her, or the part about sleeping with his boss's daughter in room 412 the night before.

That had been the bull that broke the fence.

Not that Sarah was entirely innocent. He remembered finding her texts to Michael, her personal trainer. The ones she'd deleted but somehow forgot to purge from the cloud. They'd been dancing around each other's lies for three years like boxers who'd forgotten the point of the fight.

His iPhone lit up again. A photo this time: their dog, Buster, looking impossibly sad. The manipulative bitch.

David stood up, water dripping from his legs. The pool attendant watched him with professional disinterest. What would it cost, really? To send one text back: I'm sorry. I'm coming home. To dive back into the familiar pool of mutual resentment and comfortable dishonesty?

His thumb hovered over the screen. Then he walked to the deep end and tossed the iPhone into the chlorinated water. It sank quickly, a small black stone disappearing into artificial blue.

He ordered another gin. The truth was, he didn't know what he wanted. He only knew that for the first time in years, no one knew exactly where he was. And that, terrifying as it was, felt like freedom.