What Remains in the Water

The pool at the roadside motel was empty at 3 AM, the water catching the harsh fluorescent glow in bruised ripples. Elena had been swimming laps for an hour, her body moving through the chlorine-scented dark, trying to exhaust herself enough to sleep. Tomorrow she'd sign the papers. Tomorrow the house—their house—would belong to someone else.

She surfaced near the edge, gasping, and saw it: a fox standing at the pool's fence, its coat burnished copper in the parking lot lamps. It watched her with stillness, head cocked, and for a terrible moment Elena thought of Max—the Golden Retriever she'd left behind with David. She'd fought for the dog in the mediation, then surrendered when David's lawyer pointed out she'd be living in a studio apartment. Max was eight now. He probably forgot her already.

The fox vanished into the darkness as silently as it had appeared. Elena pulled herself from the pool, water streaming from her skin like something being shed. Her phone sat on the lounge chair where she'd left it, the screen lighting up with a message from David.

Max died yesterday. We buried him in the backyard. I thought you should know.

She stared at the words until they blurred. The morning sun would rise in a few hours, illuminating the tire shops and strip malls and this terrible, liminal place where she'd stopped to rest between marriages. But for now, in the blue artificial dark, Elena lowered herself back into the water, swimming toward nothing at all.