Water Hazard

The palm fronds rustled above Marcus's head as he leaned against the stucco wall, nursing a gin and tonic he'd poured too heavy. The company retreat had been David's idea—team building, he'd called it, though the only thing being built was the tension between them.

Around the pool, colleagues laughed. Someone splashed. The white noise of forced relaxation. Marcus watched David across the patio, animated, telling a story, his hands gesturing. The wedding ring caught the desert sun.

"You've got a good swing," David had told him three months ago, standing too close in the batting cages. "Natural." Then his hand had lingered on Marcus's lower back, thumb pressing through the mesh fabric.

Now Marcus finished his drink in one swallow and set the glass on a coaster. He'd bear this. He'd borne it for ninety days—the emails that stayed too long in drafts, the cancelled meetings, the weight of something that couldn't be spoken.

"Marcus." David was beside him suddenly, smelling like chlorine and expensive cologne. "Coming in?"

The pool lights flickered on—early evening. Blue and unnatural.

"Maybe later," Marcus said. "Think I'll find a sports bar. Catch the baseball game."

David's face did something complicated. "Right. Sure." He paused. "You know, sometimes—"

"Don't."

The word hung between them, small and sharp.

David nodded once, something like grief moving behind his eyes. Then he turned and walked toward the pool, stripping off his shirt. Marcus watched him dive in, cutting through the water, surfacing somewhere else entirely.

The palm trees whispered overhead. Marcus ordered another drink.