The Weight of Summer

The empty swimming pool stared up at David like a gaping wound in the backyard—its blue paint peeling, the drain at the bottom clogged with last autumn's leaves. He hadn't touched it since Elena left three years ago, though he still paid the maintenance crew to keep it from becoming a mosquito breeding ground. They'd promised to resurface it this spring. Another broken promise.

Inside, the spinach salad David had prepared for dinner sat wilting on the counter. He'd bought fresh baby spinach from the farmer's market that morning, imagining he might actually cook tonight, maybe even invite Sarah from accounting over. She'd been dropping hints for weeks—lingering after meetings, finding reasons to stop by his desk. But the spinach sat there, mocking him, just like everything else in his life that required effort.

His brother called at 8 PM, drunk again. "You gotta bear with me, Davey," Marcus slurred, "I'm just saying—what's the fucking point? We work these jobs, we pay these bills, and for what? To die alone in some condo in Florida?"

David pressed the phone against his ear, staring out at the pool. "You're not alone, Marcus. You have Mom and Dad. You have me."

"Sure. Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

After Marcus hung up, David found himself standing at the pool's edge, holding the container of wilted spinach. The moon reflected off the bottom where water should have been. He remembered the summer of 2019—Elena floating on her back, laughing as she splashed him, her skin glistening, both of them drunk on cheap wine and the reckless optimism of people who think love conquers all. They'd talked about filling this pool with their children someday.

He dumped the spinach into the empty pool. It fell like green rain, scattered across the concrete like something broken and abandoned. Maybe the maintenance crew would find it. Maybe they'd judge him. Maybe Sarah from accounting would stop by tomorrow and see a man who couldn't even finish making a salad.

David went inside and locked the sliding glass door. Some wounds were never meant to heal completely. Some pools were never meant to be filled again.