The Water We Never Drink

Marlena's legs kicked rhythmically against the turquoise surface of the hotel pool, her head bobbing like a fishing float. She wasn't really swimming—just treading, staying afloat, waiting. The water temperature was exactly what the brochure had promised: eighty-eight degrees, heated year-round. It was the kind of detail Richard would have memorized, filed away in his mental compendium of useless facts. Richard, who was probably right now explaining something equally pointless to the woman from accounting. She'd seen them together at the company retreat—Richard's hand too low on her back, both of them laughing at something that wasn't funny.

The evening sun cast orange ripples across the pool's surface. Marlena had come here to escape the hotel bar's postseason baseball coverage, the roar of crowds and announcers' voices everywhere she turned. Richard loved baseball. He'd once spent twenty minutes explaining the infield fly rule to her, his eyes lighting up like she'd given him a gift instead of just listening. Last year, he'd bought them tickets to opening day, but she'd come down with the flu and he'd taken his brother instead. She remembered watching from bed, delirious and feverish, the television showing crowds of people sharing something she couldn't touch.

Now she was swimming alone in a strange city, attending a conference she'd begged Richard to join her for. He'd said he couldn't get away from work. The accounting department had apparently found themselves equally short-staffed, except for the one person who could.

A hotel employee appeared at the pool's edge, clipboard in hand. "Ma'am, we're closing in ten minutes."

"Right," Marlena said. "Of course."

She hauled herself out of the water, her limbs heavy and waterlogged. The air felt suddenly cold against her skin. There was a metaphor here, something about the weight of things you carried until you finally let them go, but she was too tired to make it stick. Tomorrow she'd call him. Tomorrow she'd ask the question she'd been avoiding since the company retreat. But not tonight. Tonight, she'd wrap herself in the rough hotel towel and sleep in the center of the king-sized bed, alone, suspended in the dark like something not yet decided.