What the Water Knows

The pool was empty at 2 AM, just as she needed it to be. Elena slipped into the water, **swimming** slow laps that matched the rhythm of her thoughts. Six months since David left, and still she found herself counting the losses in strange categories.

There was Buster, the **dog** they'd adopted together—who'd inexplicably chosen to leave with David. A betrayal that stung more than it should have, as if the animal's loyalty had been a referendum on her worthiness. She'd seen them at the park last week, David jogging with Buster beside him, both looking healthier than she felt.

Then there was the **goldfish**, whose bowl sat on her kitchen counter, an orange flash of accusatory memory. It had been a wedding gift from her mother-in-law, a joke about how fish were easier than children. Joan had said it with that tight smile, the one that meant she thought Elena wasn't mother material. The fish had outlasted the marriage. Sometimes, late at night, Elena found herself whispering to it, confessing things she couldn't say to her friends.

She'd started **running** three months ago, at her therapist's suggestion. Something about processing grief through motion. But every run ended at the same park, the one where David walked Buster, and she'd hide behind trees to avoid them, which was pathetic, really. She was forty-two years old, successful in her career, reduced to dodging her ex-husband and their traitor dog.

Her **palm** pressed against the pool's bottom, fingers splaying against the concrete. She'd had a palm reading once, in college. The woman had told her she'd have two great loves. The first would burn fast and leave scars. The second would come later, quiet as morning light. She'd thought David was the first. Now she wondered if the first love had been someone else entirely, or if the second had already passed her by without her noticing.

The fish needed feeding. The dog probably missed her, in his own simple way. David—well, David had made his choice. Elena kicked off from the wall, breaking the surface with a gasp, water streaming down her face like the tears she wouldn't let herself cry anymore.

Tomorrow she'd buy a second goldfish. The bowl was too large for just one, and she was tired of waiting for someone else to complete the sets she'd started. The water held her weight as she floated on her back, staring up at the stars, finally learning how to be alone.