The Green Tile Edge

I kneel by the pool deck, the surface water flat under a spill of sodium lamps. The air smells of chlorine and damp concrete. My hands rest on a wooden bench; the wood is cool, heavy. Tucked beside my knee is a postcard, the kind with the faded corner. The address side bears my looping script, the ink a bruised purple. I bend my head to the postcard, feeling a strange gravity toward its blank surface, a weight I cannot name. A voice calls across the empty pool; it says a name. The sound hits the water, a ripple that does not spread. The sound dissolves the letters instantly, leaving only the metallic tang of the deep. I smooth the postcard flat on the concrete floor.