What We Keep

The pool hadn't been cleaned in weeks. Green algae filmed the surface like a bruise, and Marcus wanted to dive in anyway—he always did, right into the messy middle of things. But Elena sat on the edge, feet dangling in water that was probably thick with mosquitoes, holding a papaya she'd picked up at the bodega on the corner.

"It's too soft," she said, thumb pressing into the yellow-orange flesh. "Everything's too soft these days."

Marcus laughed, floating on his back in the deep end. "That's what happens when you stop paying attention. Things rot."

They'd come here to say the things they couldn't say in their apartment, where the walls held six years of arguments and make-up sex and morning coffee silences. The backyard pool belonged to Marcus's sister, currently in Bali doing something with goats and yoga, and the gate had been left unlatched for three weeks running.

"Remember when we bought those goldfish?" Elena asked suddenly. She wasn't looking at him. She was watching the way the pool light, still on despite the neglect, cast wavering ripples across the concrete deck.

"We were drunk."

"We were in love."

"We were twenty-three," he said, which wasn't an answer.

They'd named the goldfish after existential philosophers, which had seemed hilarious at 2 AM in a pet store. Sartre had lasted three days. Camille had made it nearly a month before either overfeeding or philosophical despair took her. They'd flushed them together, Elena crying actual tears, Marcus trying not to laugh and then feeling terrible about it later—though maybe what he felt was just the shape of things to come.

Elena sliced the papaya with her house keys, juice running down her wrist. She offered him a wedge, dripping and bright. He swam to the edge, water slicking his hair back, and took it from her hand. His fingers brushed her palm and stayed there, just for a moment, suspended in the humid air.

"It's good," he said, chewing. "Perfect, actually."

"I know," she said. "That's the problem."

He treaded water, watching her. The papaya was perfect because she'd let it sit on the counter for days, waiting for the exact right moment. That was Elena—always waiting, always timing, always certain she'd know when perfection arrived. But Marcus was already treading water in the deep end, and he'd been there for a while, and he was starting to get tired.

"I'm not coming back inside," he said.

The pool light flickered. A moth threw itself against the bulb, again and again.

"I know," she said again, and this time she didn't offer him anything else.