What the Water Remembers

The hotel pool was empty at 6 AM, which was exactly what David needed. He'd been awake since 4, staring at the ceiling of room 312, listening to Sarah's breathing in the other bed. The divorce papers were on the nightstand between them, four pages that summed up fifteen years.

He slipped into the water fully clothed—jeans, button-down, everything. The cold shocked him awake, or maybe it was just the feeling of being finally, thoroughly submerged in something. He'd been drowning for months, maybe years. This was just more literal.

Their cat, Luna, had been Sarah's idea. A sleek black thing who moved through their house like she owned it, which she did. Luna would sit on David's chest when he worked from home, purring against his deadlines, and he'd pretended to hate it. Last month, he'd found her sleeping in his suitcase, already packing herself away from him.

The dog came later. Buster—a golden retriever mix from the shelter, all desperate love and bad knees. Buster was David's incompetence made manifest, his inability to protect something that depended on him. The cancer had taken Buster in eight months, and David still felt guilty about the euthanasia decision, about holding the paw while Sarah sobbed in the waiting room.

"Are you coming up or going down?" Sarah's voice from the pool's edge.

David hadn't heard her approach. She looked smaller without makeup, in her robe. The pool lights cast wavering shadows across her face.

"Just floating," he said.

She sat on the edge, feet in the water. "I'm keeping Luna."

"Okay."

"She likes me better anyway."

"She likes you better," David agreed.

They sat in silence for a long time. The water lapped against the tiles, tiny rhythmic apologies.

"I don't know if I can do this," Sarah said finally.

"Which part?"

"Any of it. Starting over. The apartment alone. Being someone's ex-wife instead of his wife. I don't know who that is."

David treaded water, watching her. "You're still you. You just have different paperwork."

"That's bullshit and you know it."

"Yeah."

"Remember when Buster got into the neighbor's compost and threw up all over the new carpet?" she asked, almost smiling.

"I steam-cleaned that carpet for three hours."

"You were so angry. But then you slept on the couch with him anyway."

"He was scared."

"He knew you'd stay."

David stopped treading water and let himself sink, just for a second—the weightless moment before buoyancy forced him back up. When he broke the surface, Sarah was crying.

"Come in," he said.

"I'm not dressed for swimming."

"Neither am I."

She slid into the water, robe and all, and they floated there together as the sun came up over the parking lot. Two people who used to be married, fully clothed in a hotel pool, held up by nothing but water and the terrible, persistent gravity of what they couldn't quite let go of.

"Maybe Luna should go with you," Sarah said. "She sleeps on suitcases, David. She knows when something's ending before we do."

David reached for her hand underwater. "Let's sign the papers first. Then we can decide who gets the cat."