The Weight of Water

The pool was empty at 5 AM, as it always was. Sarah preferred it that way. Swimming laps was the only time her mind quieted, the rhythmic stroke-breathe-stroke allowing her to exist without thinking about the untouched mug of coffee on her kitchen counter, or the voicemail she still hadn't listened to.

She'd left her wedding ring on the bedside table three weeks ago. Daniel hadn't noticed until two days later.

The locker room was painted a harsh orange that somehow made everything look worse under fluorescent lights. Sarah sat on the bench, towel-drying her hair, watching an elderly woman struggle with her locker. The woman's cat sat patiently in a carrier nearby, its amber eyes following Sarah's movements.

"He's waiting for his breakfast," the woman said, catching Sarah's gaze. "Barnaby. My husband's cat, technically. But William's been gone six months, and Barnaby and I've come to an understanding."

Sarah nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

"You have that look," the woman continued, closing her locker. "Like you're swimming underwater and can't quite reach the surface. My William used to say that about me when I was worrying about nothing. Turns out I was worrying about everything, as it happens."

The automatic doors whooshed open, letting in the morning chill. A man walked in—Daniel. He stopped when he saw her, gym bag slung over his shoulder, looking like he hadn't slept since she left.

"I didn't know you came here," he said.

"I didn't either," Sarah said. "Not until after."

The orange locker room walls suddenly seemed too bright, too exposing. Barnaby meowed from his carrier, a low, knowing sound.

"Can we talk?" Daniel asked. "Please?"

Sarah looked at the elderly woman, who offered a small, sad smile and headed toward the exit with Barnaby. The pool's blue water rippled beyond the glass wall, calm and indifferent.

"I'm not ready to come up for air yet," Sarah said, and walked past him toward the showers, where she could pretend the water on her face wasn't partly tears.