What Remains in the Water

Margaret stood at the edge of the abandoned pool, its surface covered in a film of dead leaves and algae. Six months after David left, the house still held his ghost in every corner. The **goldfish** bowl sat empty on the kitchen counter—Bubbles had died three weeks ago, and Margaret had simply flushed him without ceremony, the way David had flushed their marriage of fifteen years.

She'd bought **spinach** at the farmer's market that morning, still moving through the motions of cooking for two. The irony wasn't lost on her: all those years making healthy meals, and David had still chosen someone else. Someone younger. Someone who didn't know about his mother's drinking problem or his difficulty maintaining an erection after his promotion.

The **cable** company had called yesterday offering a bundled package she didn't need. She'd canceled their service months ago, preferring the quiet. Sometimes she caught herself talking to the empty rooms anyway, rehearsing conversations she should have had years ago.

**Lightning** split the sky as the first drops of rain fell, and she remembered the night David told her he was leaving. They'd been at a party, standing on a balcony while other couples laughed behind glass. He hadn't cried. He'd just said, 'I think I've made a mistake.' Not about leaving—he meant marrying her in the first place.

Margaret watched the rain disturb the stagnant water of the pool, creating ripples that disturbed nothing at all. She was forty-five, starting over, learning to be whole again. It was terrifying. It was also the first time in years she felt anything resembling hope.

The spinach would wilt in the fridge. That was fine. Tomorrow she'd make something new.