The Weight of Water

Margaret stood at the edge of the pool, midnight-blue water reflecting the deck lights where Richard's colleagues laughed over wine she'd refused. Her iphone buzzed in her palm—again—but she didn't look. She knew what it said. The same message she'd been sending herself for three years: *You can still leave. You can still start over.*

Richard emerged from the house, his hair wet from a shower she hadn't been invited to join. He'd changed into his swimming trunks, the ones he'd worn on their honeymoon in Turks and Caicos, before the promotions, before the miscarriage, before the silence had grown thick enough to choke on.

"Coming in?" he asked, not meeting her eyes. "Water's perfect."

Margaret looked at her phone one last time—the unread texts from her sister asking if she was okay, the notification from her therapist app reminding her of the appointment she kept skipping. She set it on the patio table, screen down, like closing a coffin lid.

"Your hair," she said instead. "You're letting it go gray."

Richard ran a hand through it, self-conscious. "Yeah. Well. Forty's coming for us all, isn't it?"

"Some of us sooner."

The silence stretched, thin and terrible. She remembered when they used to talk in bed until dawn, when she'd run her fingers through his hair and he'd tell her he loved her like he meant it. Now his phone lived between them on the nightstand, charging like a third heartbeat.

"Are you happy?" The question escaped before she could stop it.

Richard laughed, startled and bitter. "Happy? Maggie, I'm a partner at the firm. We have the house, the cars, the—"

"—the pool," she finished. "Yes. The pool."

He dove in then, a clean entry that barely disturbed the surface. Margaret watched him stroke to the other end, back and forth, back and forth, like he was trying to swim away from something that was already drowning him.

She thought about the suitcase hidden in her closet, the plane tickets to Lisbon she'd printed and never used. She thought about the woman she used to be, the one who believed love was enough to weather anything.

Margaret walked to the edge of the pool. The water lapped against the concrete, patient as time. She dipped one foot in, then the other, and let herself slide beneath the weight of everything she couldn't say anymore.