John Persons Pool Party

Linda nodded. She set the glass down on the coping and walked back toward the house, where the lights were warm and the dishes were waiting and the letter from the bank sat hidden in a box of tinsel and angel hair.

At six o’clock, the sun began to lower, and the light turned gold and cruel. Shadows stretched across the lawn like accusations. john persons pool party

John thought about saying yes. He thought about saying no. He thought about telling her the truth: that he had been underwater for two years now, and that the surface was getting harder and harder to reach. Linda nodded

He took the margarita. The salt stung a small cut on his lip. He didn’t remember getting the cut. Probably from shaving. Or maybe from the dream he’d been having lately, the one where he was drowning in a pool full of broken glass. He didn’t tell Linda about that dream. He didn’t tell her a lot of things anymore. Shadows stretched across the lawn like accusations

John said nothing. He was thinking about the letter that had arrived that morning, the one from the bank. The one with the word FORECLOSURE printed in red ink, as if the bank thought he might miss it. He had hidden the letter in the garage, inside a box of Christmas decorations that no one had opened since 2019.

“You look terrible,” she said.

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