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Swimming has always done one thing well: it gives my mind something else to obey.

Today even that feels unreliable.

I cut through the water hard, turn too sharply, drive off the wall like I can outrun the image of that canvas if I just keep moving fast enough.

I don't hear her come back.

The terrace doors open and I hear her voice.

"Everett."

I keep swimming.

Another lap.

"Everett."

I hit the far edge, turn, and come up just in time to see her yank the sundress over her head.

For one stunned second, I just stare.

Aria, my wife, in only a lace bra and panties, bare legs, and hair wind-tossed from town. Sun on her skin.

Then she dives.

She surfaces with a splash and starts swimming toward me with determination that far exceeds her actual comfort in the water.

I stop dead, standing in the six foot deep end.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"Getting your attention."

"You had it."

A wet strand of hair sticks to her cheek. She shoves it away with an irritated breath. "No. I had your silence."

She makes it a few more strokes and slows, treading water a little harder than she wants me to notice.

I move toward her.

Not enough to touch yet. Just enough to see the anger in her face.

"That was rude," she says.

"What was?"

"You know exactly what. You walked out."

"I left."

"Same thing."

"It isn't."

"It is when you don't say why."

We stare at each other, both breathing too hard for a conversation that's barely started.