What Remains in the Water

Maya stood before the bathroom mirror, pulling a strand of gray hair from her temple. Thirty-nine, and already her body was betraying her. Not that David would notice. He'd been dead eight months, and she was still angry at him for leaving, angry at cancer, angry at the unfairness of it all.

She drove to the grocery store with half-formed plans to cook something nutritious, something that said 'I am taking care of myself.' But standing in the produce aisle, she found herself paralyzed by choice. Papaya or spinach? The papaya reminded her of their honeymoon in Maui—David feeding her slices with his fingers, the juice sticky between them. She placed it in her cart anyway. Some masochistic part of her wanted to taste that memory again.

The spinach was for dinner. Their anniversary would have been today. Twelve years. She'd bought a steak to go with it, because David would have wanted something celebratory, and somehow eating alone with steak and spinach felt less pathetic than the microwave meals she'd been subsisting on.

Back home, she changed into her swimsuit. The community pool closed in an hour. Swimming had been David's suggestion when her anxiety spiked after his diagnosis. 'Just focus on your breath,' he'd said. 'In through the nose, out through the mouth. Rhythm in the water.'

The pool was empty. She slipped into the cool blue and began her laps, counting strokes to quiet her mind. Somewhere between the breaststroke and backstroke, she realized she wasn't counting anymore. She was just moving. Just existing. For the first time since the funeral, her chest felt loose enough to breathe.

Afterward, she sat on a bench in the fading light, water dripping from her hair onto the concrete. She thought about the papaya ripening on her counter, the spinach waiting to be sautéed. Maybe she'd eat them both. Maybe she'd invite her sister over. Or maybe she'd just sit here a little longer, letting herself miss him, letting herself begin to imagine what came next.