What Remains in the Water

Kate stirred the spinach into the risotto, the leaves wilting like her marriage had—gradually, then all at once. Marcus would be home soon. The bull market had been treating him well; his bullish confidence now extended to every aspect of their life, including his certainty that she wouldn't find out about the other woman.

She'd started swimming again three weeks ago, at the YMCA downtown. 6 AM, before the world demanded anything of her. The water had become the only place where she didn't feel like she was drowning. There, in the chlorinated quiet, she could actually breathe.

Her grandmother's spinach recipe. Marcus hated it. "Tastes like wet grass," he'd say, pushing his plate away. But Kate's grandmother had always known something about nourishment that Marcus never would—how the things that were good for you often tasted bitter going down.

The front door opened. His heavy footsteps, bullish and unapologetic, filled the hallway.

"Smells like grass in here," he called out, already diminishing her without even trying.

Kate turned off the stove. In the morning, she'd go swimming. She'd keep going, until she learned to float on her own.