Fault Lines (minutelovestory #65, part 1 of 2)

If she were someone who believed in omens, the blood clot quivering in the egg yolk, bubbling in the cast iron skillet, could have adequately prepared her for the discovery in the pool just twenty minutes later. Though superstition is not equipped to prepare anyone for future outcomes, it creates a tightening between two incidents - a cause and effect without comfort, this begat that. He swam when he could not sleep. The sound of the water splashing around him as he pushed through it seemed cacophonous and unnatural, but it felt precious to him, too.

She found him floating in the still turquoise water, an imitation of cerulean seawater through the trickery of tiles and sunlight, and she turned away, reentering the house through the sliding door, tripping as she passed through it, her right foot unpredictably dropping and dragging like a child might drag a stick, creating a long line, dirt succumbing to its strength, a line to follow or be crossed. Her eyes fell onto his ceramic mug on the granite countertop. It bore chips on the handle and the permanence of black tea stains within it, disparate water levels serving as the diary of a quixotic gentleman.