The Chlorine Air at Midnight

The public pool water glows a deep emerald under the sodium lamps. A green enamel cup rests on the edge, wet and heavy. I point at the pool bottom; my fingers trace a corner of the drawing taped to the tile wall. It is the little blue house on Cedar Street, drawn with thick crayon wax. I speak the name—Eliza—and the sound passes over the water. The letters wobble. They turn to dust, floating down until they vanish completely before the water settles. The drain grate smells of copper. I stand still; the cold concrete floor transmits a dull, steady warmth through the soles of my shoes. I lift the cup. It weighs nothing. I watch the water ripple where the name was.