What Drowns in the Shallow End

The pool at the Holiday Inn Express was never empty, not really. Even at 2 AM, when Maya pushed through the glass doors in her swimsuit, the water held the chlorine ghosts of everyone who'd swum there that day—businessmen escaping conference rooms, children escaping parents, people like her escaping themselves.

She slid into the water, her phone wrapped in a towel on the deck. The iPhone had buzzed twice since she'd left her room. Both times, it was him. David, with his texts that arrived like little puncture wounds.

*You left your hair stuff.*

*We need to talk about the lease.*

Maya began swimming laps, her stroke mechanical. The water dragged at her limbs, heavy and resistant. She thought about David's hair—how it curled at the nape of his neck when he'd been working late, how it smelled like that sandalwood shampoo she'd bought him three months into their relationship, when they still did things like buy each other shampoo.

They'd met at this same hotel, actually. A trade show. He'd been demonstrating some kind of financial software; she'd been hungover and hiding from her boss. They'd ended up in this pool, clothes on, kissing until security kicked them out. The water had felt different then—weightless, infinite.

Now it just felt like wet.

Her phone buzzed again. Maya ignored it, flipping at the wall, pushing off into another lap. She was swimming harder than necessary, her shoulders burning. The exertion was good. It made it harder to think.

She thought instead about the goldfish they'd bought together their first anniversary. A tiny comet fish with fins like dissolved silk. David had named it Shadow, which Maya had found depressingly literal. They'd kept it in a bowl on the windowsill of their apartment, watching it grow until its bowl seemed too small, then too small again, until finally David bought a proper tank with a filter and plants that swayed like underwater trees.

"Fish don't live long," he'd said when they bought it. "It's practice. For when we get a dog."

The fish had outlived the relationship. Shadow was still there, probably, in the apartment David was keeping. Probably wondering where Maya had gone, though goldfish were supposed to have three-second memories, which was a lie people told themselves to feel better about keeping sentient creatures in bowls.

Maybe fish remembered everything. Maybe they just chose to forget.

Maya stopped swimming, tread water in the center of the pool. Her body felt light, suspended. This was why she'd come here—this feeling of being held by something that asked nothing of her. No leases to discuss. No hair ties left behind. No phone calls about who gets the coffee maker.

She climbed out, dripping, and grabbed her phone. Three new messages from David. One voicemail.

She didn't open them. Instead she found the number she'd saved earlier that afternoon—the pet store on 4th Street.

*Hi,* she typed. *Do you have any comet goldfish? I'm setting up a tank.*

The answer came immediately: *Yes, actually. Just got a delivery.*

Maya walked back to her room, wet hair plastering her neck, phone warm in her hand. Somewhere in the city, fish were swimming in unfamiliar water, learning the shape of new worlds. She would do the same.