The Green Tile Pattern After Me

The humid air smells of chlorine and damp concrete. I stand at the edge of the empty public pool, the green enamel cups stacked near the shallow steps. The fluorescent lights hum, casting a half-light that struggles against the black water. I hold the fruit, a weight in my palm, its skin the color of bruised purple and it feels dense, heavy. Across the hall, the door to the utility room swings shut, and I hear the soft click of the latch—a sound that echoes from a room I just left, a room that continues operating without me inside it. The ache is a thrum behind my ribs, a vibration that belongs to someone else who stands on the tiled floor, just out of sight. The weight of the fruit makes my wrist ache, a specific ache that settles deep.