Watermarks

The community pool closed in fifteen minutes. Elena floated on her back, listening to the distant crack of a baseball hitting leather from the park next door. It was the same sound she'd heard every summer evening for twelve years, since before the divorce, since before Mark left his cleats by the door and never came back for them.

She swam to the edge and pulled herself up, water streaming from her hair like the tears she hadn't cried in three years. The lifeguard—a teenager with bored eyes and a whistle—didn't look up from his phone.

"Hey." A man's voice from the deck. "You're Elena, right? From the office?"

She shielded her eyes. It was David from accounting, the one who always wore sweaters even in July. He stood there with a golden retriever on a leash, the dog panting happily in the heat.

"David." She treaded water. "I didn't know you had a dog."

"Just watching him for my ex." He shrugged, a small smile playing at his lips. "She got the house, I got the dog on Tuesdays."

The baseball game erupted in cheers. Elena hoisted herself out of the pool, water dripping onto the concrete. She reached for her towel, suddenly aware of her wet swimsuit, her middle-aged thighs, the ridiculousness of being seen like this by a coworker.

"I used to play," David said, nodding toward the park. "Baseball, I mean. Back in college."

"You don't seem the type."

"I was the shortstop." He looked at his dog, who was now investigating a discarded soda can. "Then came the mortgage, the kids, the rotator cuff surgery. Life has a way of turning bases into compromises."

Elena wrapped her towel around herself. "We had season tickets," she heard herself say. "Mark and I. We stopped going after year eight."

"Yeah." David's eyes met hers, and she saw something she hadn't noticed before—sadness, recognition, the quiet resignation of someone who'd also learned that swimming against the current only exhausted you faster. "The dog's name is Batter."

"Seriously?"

"My daughter named him. She's twelve now. Doesn't remember when I could still throw a ball without my shoulder screaming."

The lifeguard blew his whistle. "Pool's closing."

"Right." Elena gathered her things. "See you Monday, David."

"Same." He hesitated. "Hey, some of us from accounting are going to that new brewery on Friday. You should come."

She should say no. She had laundry, and bills, and a reputation for being the distant one from HR who never socialized. But suddenly, the baseball game seemed closer, and the dog was wagging his tail at her like she was already part of the pack, and she was so tired of swimming alone.

"What time?"

"Seven." David's smile widened, just a little. "First round's on me."

Elena nodded once, then turned toward the locker room. Behind her, the dog barked at something in the darkness, and for the first time in three years, she thought she might be ready to play again.