What Remains in the Water

The divorce papers were signed on Tuesday. By Thursday, Elena was scrubbing the grout in the pool with a desperation that frightened her. The cat watched from the patio, tail twitching with judgment. He was Daniel's cat, really—all aloof elegance and calibrated affection. Now he would be hers, a living reminder of the man who'd packed his life into boxes and left without a backward glance.

The dog lay panting on the concrete, loyal and adoring and entirely hers. She'd brought Buster into the marriage three years ago, a golden retriever with the emotional intelligence of a therapist. He nudged her hand with his wet nose, and she sank onto the pool deck, burying her face in his fur. The chlorine smell was everywhere, sharp and clean and nothing like Daniel's sandalwood soap, which she'd found hidden in the back of the bathroom cabinet that morning.

"He's not coming back," she whispered to the dog. Buster whined in sympathy.

Inside the house, on the kitchen counter, the goldfish swam in endless circles. Another Daniel acquisition—some impulse purchase during a night when they'd been drunk on cheap wine and the delusion that they were building forever. She'd forgotten to feed it twice since he left. It kept swimming.

Elena stood up and approached the pool's edge. The water was still, perfectly blue, reflecting a sky that refused to acknowledge her devastation. She wondered what would happen if she just stepped in, clothes and all, let herself sink to the bottom where the world was muffled and distant. The thought rose and dissolved like bubbles.

"Elena?" Her sister's voice from the gate. "I brought wine. And dinner."

The cat stood, stretched, and trotted toward the voice as if he'd been waiting for her all along. The dog scrambled up, tail wagging. Elena turned from the pool's edge, from the blue mirror that had shown her everything she didn't want to see.

"Coming," she called back, and the word felt like a beginning she wasn't ready for but would somehow survive anyway.