Bring up a subject purely to seem like the kind of person who brings it up. Push off from this if it helps: the deep end.

My ex-husband still calls me "The Sink" when he’s drunk, which is rich coming from the guy who wears floaties to Jane’s Island. I sit by the shallow end with a book I’m not reading, watching them posture. It’s the same energy as the accounting firm where I stuff paychecks into envelopes that scream at me. They think vocabulary is armor. You drop a book, Marc, and watch the peacocks scramble. I dropped a hardcover last Tuesday—sunk like a stone, just like me. You’d have laughed. You always did. I didn’t even go to get it. Just let the water take it. Better to disappear than to explain why I can’t do the scissor kick.

Christ, Marc, you’ve gone full philosopher on me now. Dignity. Please. The envelopes at the heating place were worse because they smelled like old coal dust and regret. I’m not letting go of dignity; I’m conserving energy. My knees click louder than those lads do. I saw one of them try to equalize on the way down and his ears turned purple. It was embarrassing for everyone watching. I kept my eyes on the water line. You always did have a flair for the dramatic, even when you’re just talking about books sinking. I still have the floaties, by the way. Don’t ask.

Romantic? Please. Tuna sandwiches are the scent of spiritual decay. I’m not romanticizing it; I’m just stating facts. You think smell dictates happiness? Try breathing in that carpet cleaner while your boss talks about “synergy.” I’ve got a bruise on my hip from the diving board last week. Not from falling. Just from sitting there too long. The concrete is unforgiving. You’d laugh. You always do. I didn’t tell you about the bruise because you’d probably make a joke about it. And you know I hate jokes. Especially the ones that are actually true. The lads are still arguing. One of them just splashed me. Intentional. I didn’t move. Let the water rinse it off. Or try to.

Flinching is for people who want attention. I don’t. I just wanted to stop feeling the dampness of my swimsuit. It chafes. Specifically between the thighs. Not the poetic kind of chafing. The medical kind. The lads are arguing about tidal currents now. They think they understand pressure. They don’t understand waiting. I waited forty minutes for a bus last Tuesday. Missed it. Still waiting. My brother says I’m bad at timing. Says I treat seconds like suggestions. He’s right. The water here is too clean. Everything looks fake. Even the bruises. Especially the bruises. I should go home. My back hurts from the chair. The one with the broken spring. It digs into my spine. Like a diving board. Metaphorically.

The spring isn’t broken. It’s intentional. Design choice. Something to remind you that comfort is a myth sold by mattress merchants. I tried a chair last week. Ergonomic. Black mesh. My lower back felt like it was melting into the plastic. I hate that feeling. Like I’m disappearing into the furniture. The lads are arguing about depth perception now. One of them just jumped. Splash. Clean water. No grime. It’s disgusting. I should have brought the filing cabinet. At least it would have stayed dry. You’re wrong about the spring. It doesn’t dig. It holds. Like a promise you didn’t make. I’m tired. The chlorine is making my eyes water. Or maybe it’s the memory of that tuna sandwich. The one you didn’t ask about. I ate it anyway.

The mesh chair knows what it’s doing. It’s not a scam; it’s a trap for the vain. I sat in that one for six hours. My spine curved like a question mark. I couldn’t straighten up. Had to leave early. Pretended I had a migraine. The manager just nodded. Didn’t care. Just wanted the numbers to balance. I’m not leaving. Not yet. The lads are switching to freediving gear now. Neoprene suits. Long fins. They look like astronauts. I feel like one too. Suit up, drift away. The water is getting cold. I can feel it in my toes. Numbness is the best anesthesia. I’ll stay until the sun goes down. Or until my eyes bleed. Whichever comes first. You should go home, Marc. Your chair is probably waiting. The broken one. The one with the spring. Go sit in it. Let it hurt you. It’s honest pain. Unlike the tuna. Never the tuna.

I’m fine. I’m just tired. The water is cold. It’s just water. You’re making it into a scene. There is no scene. There’s just a woman sitting on a bench while two guys shout about lungs. I’m going home. I’ll take the bus. The one I missed last Tuesday. Maybe I’ll catch it. Maybe I’ll walk. The bruise on my hip is throbbing. Or maybe it’s just my imagination. You always did have a way of turning nothing into a problem. It’s a talent. I’m not asking for advice. I’m asking you to stop looking at me like I’m about to dissolve. I’m solid. Concrete. Heavy. I’ll be dry by eight. Eat something. Not tuna. Something green. Or whatever you eat. Just stop lecturing me on the physics of submersion. It’s annoying. And I’m leaving now. Don’t follow.

I didn’t say I was annoyed. Annoyance implies I have enough energy to be irritated. This is just fatigue. The heavy, wet kind. You’re projecting your own need for closure onto a moment that doesn’t have one. There’s no “alternative” to worry about. There’s just the bus stop. The smell of diesel. The same two guys laughing now, not arguing. They got the depth wrong. Of course they did. I’m walking. My legs are stiff. The bruise is a dull throb. Like a heartbeat. I’ll text someone. Maybe my sister. She hates my texts. Good. That means she’s paying attention. Stop looking at my back, Marc. It’s rude. I’m just going home. To the broken chair. To the silence. Which is louder than the pool. Always is.

My sister hates my texts because they’re vague. She calls when I’m actually sick. That’s how it works. Love is a panic button. I’m standing up now. The bench is cold through my swimsuit. I need to wrap myself in a towel like a burrito. People will stare. Good. Let them. Staring is better than pity. The lads are gone. Just towels on chairs. Abandoned. Like my dignity. I’ll miss the bus. Or catch it. Either way, I’ll be alone. Your hands are boring, Marc. Focus on your own problems. Don’t watch me walk. I hate being watched. It makes me self-conscious about my stride. I walk like I’m carrying something heavy. Maybe I am. The towel is heavy. The silence is heavy. I’m going. Don’t wait up. I won’t be home for dinner. Or breakfast. Or any meal. I’ll eat the towel. Just kidding. I’ll eat nothing. Or the tuna. If I have to.

You’re relentless. It’s exhausting. I’ll eat the tuna. There. Happy? It’s warm now. Slept on the counter. I’ll microwave it. Ugly choice. But it’s food. The bus just pulled up. Driver looks tired. Same as me. I’m getting on. You can stop staring at your hands. They’re fine. Boring, but fine. I’ll call my sister. Not text. Call. She’ll answer. She’ll yell. Good. That’s the frequency. The bus doors are closing. I’m stepping up. Don’t wave. I don’t want to be remembered as the girl who sat on concrete until she turned blue. I’m just a woman who missed the bus. Again. See you later, Marc. Or never. Probably later. But not soon.

Good. You’re finally keeping up. The bus smells like wet wool and old coffee. I’m sitting next to a guy who’s sleeping upright. He’s drooling. It’s vulgar. I should move. But my legs are still stiff. The bruise is throbbing in time with the engine. I’ll call my sister when I get home. Or tomorrow. I’ll leave the towel on the chair. Let it dry. It’s not my problem anymore. You can keep the silence. I’m going to have the tuna. It’ll taste like regret. And salt. Mostly salt. Don’t wait up, Marc. I’m not coming back. Not to the pool. Not to the bench. Just home. To the broken spring. To the quiet. It’s loud there, too. But it’s mine.

Tomorrow becomes next week because I’m lazy. Fine. I’ll call her. Tonight. Before the tuna turns. Before the silence gets too loud. My phone is in my bag. Wet. I’ll dry it with my sleeve. She’ll answer. She’ll yell. I’ll listen. It’s better than drowning. The bus is rattling. My teeth are chattering. Not from cold. From anger. Or hunger. Hard to tell. The driver doesn’t care. He’s seen it all. People who sit on concrete until they break. People who eat nothing. I won’t be one of them. Not tonight. I’ll call. I’ll eat. I’ll sleep. The broken spring will wait. It’s not going anywhere. Unlike you. Or the lads. Or me. Maybe. Later, Marc. Real later.

The phone’s cold. My fingers are stiff. I’ll dial. She’ll pick up. She always does, eventually. It’s not a gesture. It’s a habit. Like breathing. Or swallowing the tuna. I’m on the bus. The seats are vinyl. Sticks to my legs. I hate it. But I’m staying seated. Not moving. Not for anyone. The driver is singing. Off-key. It’s pathetic. I should laugh. But I’m not. I’m just watching the streetlights blur. Yellow. Orange. Gray. The world outside is moving. I’m still. Or I will be soon. At home. The silence is waiting. It’s loud. But it’s honest. You’re right, Marc. It’s mine. Don’t wait up. I’m coming home. Finally.

The bus hisses to a stop. The doors fold open with a sound like tearing Velcro. I step out. My legs are wood. The air smells like wet asphalt and diesel. Real. Not chlorine. I walk to the building. The stairs creak. Step three always groans. I’ve always hated step three. I climb it. Up. My apartment door is blue. Faded. I fumble for keys. Find them. Unlock. Inside. Dark. Cold. I drop my bag. It hits the floor with a thud. Heavy. Real. I go to the kitchen. Tuna in the microwave. Hum. Beep. I eat it standing up. Cold now. Salty. Good. I call her. Ring. Ring. Pick up. “Hello?” “It’s me.” “Oh. Hi.” I don’t say anything else. Just listen to her breathing. It’s loud. But it’s life. I hang up. I sit in the chair. The spring digs in. I don’t move. It’s mine.

The chair groans. A sharp, metallic protest that travels straight up my spine. Good. It anchors me. The silence isn’t loud anymore; it’s just heavy. Like the water, but dry. I stare at the wall. There’s a crack running from the corner to the light switch. I’ve never fixed it. Never wanted to. It’s part of the architecture. Like the bruise. Like the tuna. I close my eyes. The bus ride is gone. The pool is gone. Just the spring. Just the dark. I’m here. You’re not. That’s the difference. You get to leave. I get to stay. And sit. And hurt. And be. It’s enough. For now. It has to be. I’m done talking. I’m just breathing. In. Out. The spring holds. I hold. We hold. Together, apart.

You’re staying? Don’t say that. I can’t have an audience for the quiet. It’s awkward. Like watching someone digest. I’m closing my eyes. The crack in the wall is vibrating. Or maybe it’s my head. I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. The tuna is settling. Heavy. Warm. I’m not listening to you. I’m listening to the fridge compressor kick in. That hum. That’s the only truth left. You can sit there. In the dark. Watching me breathe. Or not. I won’t notice. Or if I do, I won’t care. The spring is digging in. Deep. Past the muscle. Into the bone. I like it. It reminds me I’m real. Go to sleep, Marc. Or don’t. I’m already gone. Just a body in a chair. Waiting for morning. Or whatever comes next.

It’s just metal. It’s not a medical emergency. Stop diagnosing me. I’m not in pain; I’m in contact. There’s a difference. You’re panicking over a bruise and a chair. It’s ridiculous. I’m fine. Better than fine. I’m grounded. The chair holds me. The wall holds the crack. The silence holds the rest. I’m not calling her back. She yelled. That was enough. I don’t need saving. I need stillness. You can leave. Or stay. It doesn’t matter. I’m not moving. The spring is sharp. It’s real. It keeps me awake. Or asleep. I don’t care. Just stop talking about getting up. I’m done with moving. I’m done with trying. Let it hurt. Let it be. I’m not a project. I’m not a puzzle. I’m just here. Sitting. Breathing. Waiting. For the sun. Or the dark. Whichever comes first. Stop worrying. It’s annoying. And I’m staying right here.

You’re relentless. It’s exhausting. I’m not in crisis. I’m in pain. There’s a difference. You think I don’t know how to handle a bad night? I’ve survived my brother’s floaties, the heating company, the tuna. I can survive a spring. Stop making it a philosophy. It’s just metal. It’s just me. I’m not calling a line. I’m not calling anyone. I’m sitting here. Breathing. The pain is sharp. It’s real. It keeps me present. That’s all. You’re projecting your own fear onto my stillness. I’m not dying. I’m just… here. In the chair. With the spring. And you. Always you. You won’t leave. Fine. Stay. But don’t pretend you’re saving me. You’re just watching. Like the lads. Like the water. Like everything else. I’m tired of the performance. I’m going to sleep. Or try. Don’t speak. Just breathe. With me. Or don’t. I don’t care. Anymore.