Under Chrome Stars
The pool closed at nine, but Marcus stayed until the lifeguard flicked the floodlights off, plunging the aquatic center into darkness. He'd been swimming laps for three hours, his muscles burning with that exquisite ache that almost—almost—drowned out the memory of Sarah's voice saying she couldn't do this anymore. She'd moved her things out three days ago. The apartment echoed now.
He pulled himself from the water, dripping on the concrete deck, and grabbed his towel from the chaise where his iPhone glowed insistently. No new messages. Just the passive-aggressive notification: "Did you see this?" from his sister, forwarding a photo of their dad at his birthday dinner. Marcus had forgotten.
He sat on the bench and pressed the iPhone to his forehead, breathing in the chlorine and the lingering summer heat through the open doors. Beyond the chain-link fence, the Little League field buzzed with Friday night energy. He could hear the crack of a baseball hitting a bat, parents cheering, the announcer's voice tinny and distant over the PA system.
His father had taught him to pitch in that same field. Twenty years ago. He'd been eleven, his father forty—younger than Marcus was now. His dad had stood behind him, guiding his arm, saying "follow through, son, follow through." Marcus had thrown a perfect strike. The pride in his father's eyes had been enough to fuel him for weeks.
Now his dad was sixty-five, living alone in the house Marcus's mother had died in two years ago. Marcus had meant to visit. He kept saying he would. But work, and the marriage counseling they'd tried for six months, and then the separation, and now this hollow apartment.
He typed "Happy birthday" into a message, then deleted it. Too little, too late. Typed it again. Stared at the send button.
The baseball game erupted in cheers—probably a home run. Marcus remembered the way Sarah had looked at him when he'd missed her sister's wedding because of a "critical" client deadline. The disappointment hadn't been angry. Just quiet. Like she'd finally given up waiting for him to show up.
He sent the birthday message anyway. Then called his father. It rang five times before voicemail picked up.
"Hey Dad, just wanted to say... listen, I know it's late. But happy birthday. I'm sorry I missed dinner. I'll come by soon, okay? Soon."
He ended the call and sat with the iPhone in his hands, the screen dimming, reflecting his own face back at him in the glass—a man thirty-four years old, dripping wet, alone in a dark pool complex, while somewhere nearby fathers and sons played baseball under floodlights, and the world kept turning without him.