The Weight of Wet Hair

The pool at the Sunset Gardens Apartments had been drained for repairs, leaving behind a cavernous empty mouth lined with cracked blue tile. Elena sat on the edge, her legs dangling into the darkness, nursing a gin and tonic that had gone warm. She'd been coming here every evening since Marcus moved out.

At 47, she'd finally done it: she'd stopped coloring the gray at her temples. The first silver strand had appeared at 32, right after their miscarriage. Marcus had loved running his fingers through her dark hair then, had told her it made him feel like he was touching something alive and growing. Now, touching her own hair in the bathroom mirror, she felt like she was touching something dying.

"You look tired, El," her coworker had said earlier that day. "That new project manager's working everyone into the ground."

Elena hadn't mentioned that Marcus wanted to reconcile. That he'd called, drunk, two nights ago, saying he'd made a terrible mistake. That she'd almost agreed to meet him at the old orange booth at the diner where they'd had their first date, twenty-three years ago.

The maintenance guy—early twenties, with oily skin and aname tag that read 'Tyler'—walked past with a bucket of adhesive. He nodded at her.

"Pool'll be filled by Monday," he said. "If you're still here."

The implication hung heavy: everyone knew about the separation. Elena felt the weight of it all—the unfinished manuscript gathering dust on her desk, the forwarded emails from Marcus's mother, the way her hair seemed to thin more each month despite what the bottles promised.

She pulled the lime wedge off her glass and squeezed it into her mouth. Sour. Like Marcus's voice the last time they'd really talked, really fought: 'You're never satisfied, Elena. It's always something else. Another degree. Another job. Another version of yourself you think you need to become.'

Her phone buzzed on the concrete. Unknown number. Probably him.

Elena watched the orange streetlamp flicker on above the empty pool, casting long shadows across the dried concrete. She didn't answer. Instead, she gathered her hair—gray, silver, stubborn—and twisted it into a knot at the nape of her neck.

Monday. She'd decide by Monday when the water came back.