What We Keep in Water

The divorce papers sat on the kitchen counter next to a bag of spinach that was already beginning to wilt. David stood there, remembering how Sarah used to swim laps at the university pool every morning at 5 AM, even in winter. He'd wanted to join her once, but the water had always frightened him—that sensation of surrendering to something larger than yourself.

"You never want to try anything," she'd said, the same thing she'd said when he declined tickets to the baseball game last summer. Their seats had been behind home plate, a gift from his boss. Sarah had gone alone, come back smelling like beer and cheap hot dogs, smiling in a way he hadn't seen in months.

Now the apartment was full of things they'd acquired together: the goldfish bowl with its solitary orange fish that David had forgotten to feed three times already this week, the expensive coffee maker she'd insisted on buying with wedding gift money, the books they'd chosen together on rainy Sunday afternoons.

He dropped a handful of spinach into a pan, watching it wilt instantly in the heat. That's what they'd done too—wilted under the pressure of expectations, of jobs, of trying to become people they weren't ready to be. The goldfish swam to the surface, mouth opening and closing in silent demand.

"Fine," David said to the empty room. He shook flakes into the bowl, watched the fish consume them greedily, then return to circling the same small space.

Later that night, he drove to the community pool and stood at the edge. The water was still and blue under fluorescent lights. He stepped in, clothes and all, and began swimming—awkwardly at first, then with something like grace. The water held him up. He thought about Sarah somewhere else, possibly swimming in someone else's arms. The thought didn't hurt as much as he expected it to.

He climbed out dripping, water pooling around him on the concrete. The goldfish would need feeding again tomorrow. The spinach would go bad. The baseball season would start without him. Life would continue, smaller now but somehow lighter, like the space left in the water after something heavy has been removed.