The Weight of Water

The bull stood in the corner of the restaurant's outdoor terrace, its mounted head seemingly judging me over margaritas with my husband's business partner, Elena. We'd just finished an aggressive match of padel, my skirt still clinging with sweat, Elena's competitive laughter still ringing in my ears. Mark was inside, settling the bill, leaving me alone with the woman who knew more about my husband's work life than I did.

'I started swimming again,' Elena said, swirling her drink. 'After the divorce. Every morning at dawn. The water holds you differently when you're alone.'

I nodded, unable to voice that Mark and I hadn't touched in months, that our marriage felt like a rerun of a film we'd both memorized but no longer enjoyed watching.

The waiter brought our tapas—spinach garlicked into submission, just like my mother used to make when she wanted to apologize without words. I watched Elena's elegant fingers pick at the iron-rich leaves, imagining her swimming through dark water, alone.

'Mark says you're thinking of leaving the firm,' she said, not quite meeting my eyes. 'He's worried about you.'

The bull's glass eyes seemed to bore into mine. Was Mark worried, or was he preparing stories?

'I'm fine,' I said, hearing the lie like a stone dropped in deep water. 'Just... recalibrating.'

Later, I stood by the pool at our Airbnb, the water black and silent under moonlight. I thought about diving in—letting the water strip away the padel bruises, the spinach taste of guilt, the mounting suspicion that everyone I loved was keeping secrets in the deep end where I couldn't swim. Instead, I sat on the edge, feet dangling in the cold, trying to remember when I'd stopped fighting for the surface.