What the Screen Reveals

The pool was nearly empty at 7 AM, just me and the elderly man who swam laps with agonizing slowness, his back permanently bent. I'd started swimming again after the miscarriage, seeking the weightless silence underwater where thoughts couldn't reach me.

Back in our kitchen, the spinach was wilting in the colander. David had promised to make breakfast—eggs Florentine, my favorite—before his morning call. But his iPhone had buzzed at 6:45 with that particular rhythm, the one I'd learned meant her. Emily from Marketing. The Emily who'd been working late with him three nights that week.

I treaded water, watching my fingers prune. The phone lay on the pool deck where I'd tossed it, screen cracked but still functioning, still showing the message I'd read when it lit up beside my towel:

"Can't wait to see you tomorrow. Same place?"

Same place. The same hotel where his company had hosted that conference last month. Where I'd stayed home with the spinach and the hope that maybe next month would bring different news.

The elderly swimmer climbed out of the pool, water dripping from his lined skin like tears. I floated on my back, staring at the ceiling where light rippled across it like something breathing. The water held me up, but I'd never felt so heavy.

Behind me, the iPhone buzzed again against the concrete. A vibration like a heartbeat, or maybe a countdown.