Content warning: self-harm, mental health, toxic relationships.

Her

His head is a perfect cue ball. Round. Small. Bald. It bobs on the surface of the water, mimicking the gentle waves that swell around him. A frisbee flies and the sea spits out his body. He’s no longer a cue ball; he’s a whale breaching water, airborne and clumsy. He misses. He laughs. He slings the bit of plastic back to his sister.

Before I called him ‘husband’, I loved these quirks of his; how he throws his head back when he laughs, that smiling, for him, comes so easily. But now, as I tread water and his giggles grow louder, my eyes can’t help but roll. He hasn’t looked at me once since I braved the sea. He and his sister were already waist-deep and wrestling in the waves when I decided to join them. I strutted across the wet sand wearing my lowest bikini top, stomach sucked tight, but my husband failed to notice. I dipped my feet in without wincing, and despite the bitter cold, I ventured deeper, swimming until my feet couldn’t graze the seabed, and then, further still. I was expecting him to beckon me over, worried that a rogue tsunami would engulf me, or the strong current would tow me away, but he’s not concerned. He’s busy. Throw, giggle, catch. Too busy for me.

I survey the beach and spot the lifeguard perched on top of his tower. He’s young, probably no older than twenty-three. I know this because I saw him ogling me through his plastic aviators as I paraded across the beach. So, he’s easily distracted and seeing cleavage is clearly still a novelty, which tells me he’s new to the job. He has a thick layer of gel in his hair, perfectly sculptured into a quiff, so it’s obvious he’s never been sea-salt wet and isn’t planning on it today. This is bad news for sinking toddlers or water-logged old ladies, but great news for me.

There are others here, too. People splashing in the shallows, kids playing tag with the waves, but nobody is as far out as me. I am alone, helpless, invisible. If my husband is a cue ball then I am a speck merging with the infinite blue.

One last chance. I raise my arm above my head and wave at him. Nothing, not even a casual glance up, and instead, he chucks the frisbee again. It’s a shit throw. Too far left.

I look down into the gloomy water. My legs disappear into the void as I kick about to stay afloat. My muscles quiver and I can’t determine whether it’s because I’m cold, tired, or apprehensive about what I must do. What my husband pushes me to do.

I will drown for him.

Him

My wife’s skull is transparent. I see the gears turning, the cogs grinding in that brain of hers. What should be secrets: her thoughts, feelings, fears, are all betrayed by a small twitch of her eyebrow, the way she tenses her jaw, swung hips for a frat-boy lifeguard. Right now, she’s like a gutted pig, her insides are on display and it’s turning the water red.

My wife has always disliked my sister, or should I say, she’s always disliked how friendly we are. She often flings remarks disguised as a harmless curiosity: you love hanging out with her, don’t you? And: it’s so nice that you invited her on holiday with us, which, regardless of what form her comment takes, always translates to: why do you prefer your sister to me?

 It pains her that thirty-six years ago, my sibling and I were as close as two people could possibly be, intertwined in the womb, floating in the same fluid. And here we are, my sister and I, floating together again. Is that what’s wrong, sweetheart? Is that why you’re oozing insecurity into the sea?

From the corner of my vision, I see her ant-like arm waving at me. It’s a test. During our five years of marriage, I have faced many of these, and to her disappointment, I have failed many. I forget it’s Valentine's Day or don’t compliment her after a trip to the hair salon. (Blonde hair never suited her, truthfully.) I should wave back, I could pass this one effortlessly, but I enjoy ignoring my wife. My favourite pastime is guessing what she’ll do next. How will she react? How far will she go?

I fling the frisbee back, but my focus has drifted and my aim along with it. It’s a shit throw, too far left and my sister and I chuckle. Do you hear us laughing, my love?

Her

I’ve never drowned before, but I have seen it in movies, I know the motions. It’s a lot of flailing, shrieking, and then, waiting. Yes, I’ll wait for him to pull me from the depths with determined hands, and cradle me as we glide towards the shore. His sister will watch as he lowers my frail body to the sand, kisses my blue lips and says: I thought I lost you. It will be beautiful, tear-jerking, like the final page of a Nicholas Sparks book, or the climax in a Rom-Com featuring Drew Barrymore and some beef-cake male actor. I’m almost envious of the sunbathers that will have a front-row seat.

Stealing a palmful from the sea, I splash my face and rub at my stinging eyes. My fingers come away black with mascara and I smudge the pigment down my cheeks. Treading water with only my legs, I fix my hair, and by fix I mean pulling strands loose from my ponytail so they dangle across my face. I do this until I’m sure I look like a mess. Until I’m sure I look perfect.

Step one: complete. 

Step two: drop the bait.

I’m engulfed in a frothy eruption as my arms pummel the water, and then, I scream. I’m almost surprised at how realistic it sounds, but then it’s something I’ve wanted to yell all day; since we woke this morning hugging different sides of the bed, since he greeted his sister with lips I haven’t felt in weeks, since he abandoned me to the sea. I scream his name.

My husband’s cue-ball head snaps to me, and whilst inhaling my last breath, I allow myself a final thought. It's comforting, and I have to swallow my smile. God, he will love you for this.

I stop kicking, and the world immediately becomes a wash of cloudy blue. Salt pricks my eyes, bubbles trickle from my nose, and like a child, I count them as they flutter away.

One, two, three.

For someone that is drowning, I’m awfully calm. Perhaps it’s because I know my husband is not. What’s running through his mind, I wonder? The image of my lifeless body sprawled across the seabed amongst dead fish, beer bottles and plastic bags? 

Ten, eleven.

Or maybe it’s the echo of his name being torn apart. Whatever it is, I hope it hurts. Only so my kiss can numb the pain.

Fourteen.

He should be close now. I can almost hear him, his arms and legs whipping the water as he jets across the sea. 

Twenty-five, twenty-six.

Quicker and quicker he’ll go, and even when his muscles cramp and seawater sloshes in his stomach, he’ll keep swimming. Keep searching.

Thirty.

 Because, although sometimes he forgets it, undoubtedly, my husband loves me. 

Him

A muffled shriek grazes my ears and I whip around to find my wife’s outstretched arms disappearing beneath the milky surface of the water. My sister, wide-eyed and gasping into her palm, looks at me expectantly. Sun-soakers have peeled themselves from their deckchairs to get a better view of the commotion and even the frat-boy lifeguard has dragged his attention from whatever dating app he’s swiping on his phone. 

 I want to reassure everyone that their worry is unwarranted. Just as couples dress in cheap polyester costumes to rekindle their love life, or play chess on lazy afternoons, this, too, is a game of sorts. My wife is roleplaying, sitting casually on the opposite side of a checkerboard and anticipating my next move. Of course, I keep these thoughts to myself. Some things can’t be shared between strangers– and even more so, your sister. And besides, this is strictly a two-player game.

My brows furrow with faux concern, I relax my jaw so it hangs open, and then, with all the machismo I can muster, I dive under the water to play rescue with my poor, poor, helpless wife.

Her

Fifty-two.

Or is it fifty-three? It’s hard to count when your lungs are ablaze. Sunlight glistens overhead, a cruel reminder that respite is merely three breast-strokes upward. Perhaps this was a mistake. Maybe I didn’t scream loudly enough, or most likely, his sister is distracting him. She’s probably still flinging the frisbee, pleading for them to continue their childish game. But I’m winning! She’ll be saying. If you leave now, you’re disqualified. Come on, let her drown a little bit longer.

I must be patient. He’ll come eventually. I can hold on for another ten seconds, perhaps twenty. Yes, just a few more bubbles longer…

Seventy-one.

Dark spots mar my vision and the sea’s bitter hands grip tight around my limp body. I resist the primal urge to inhale by imagining my husband breathing air into my lungs. Filling me up. Making me whole. My eyelids have become lead and they plead to close, but before I yield, I spot something in the near distance. A figure glides through the ocean, approaching slowly until two pale legs cycle above my head. The person dips beneath the surface and peers down at me - their round, bald head unmistakable.  

With the dregs of my remaining energy, I extend both arms towards my husband, like a child asking to be collected from the floor, but he doesn’t react. Can he not see me? Does he not know I’m right here?

I thrash in the water, my hands clawing desperately at the sea in the hope that the sudden movement will seize his attention. Yet, he remains unresponsive. 

“I’m here!” I wail. No sound escapes, just a flurry of bubbles which rush from my mouth. I part my lips to cry out once more, but the ocean rushes in. Down my throat. Overflowing my lungs. A searing blaze consumes me, and as I take a final desperate glance toward my husband, I catch a glimpse of something strange. Perhaps it’s a trick of the light fracturing on the surface or a hallucination born from agony, but I'm convinced, as the world dims to black, that there's a tug of a smile upon his lips.

Him

I find my wife four metres under the water, limbs flailing in an attempt to keep herself submerged. It’s almost comical. I duck under, readying myself to seize her arms and haul her to the surface, when her head tilts up towards me and our eyes meet. 

I pause. 

Despite the ocean warping her features, I see her face clearly: wide doe-eyes, arched brows and parted lips - a look which, if you don’t know my wife, could be easily misinterpreted for fear. But there’s a glimmer of something else there, too. She wore this expression when I found her crumpled at the bottle of the stairs after we argued about anniversary plans. And again, when she sliced her palm chopping onions after I told her my sister would be joining our holiday. Yes, beyond the veneer of panic, there's a fleeting glint in her eye—an emotion not of vulnerability, but of excitement—and it whispers: prove how much you love me.

My heart hammers in my chest as I survey her suspended body which, from this perspective, is small and delicate, like a rag doll whose stitching is on the verge of unravelling. It would be so easy for me to help her. So easy to just reach out a little further and pluck her from this watery underworld. Too easy, perhaps. My stomach flutters with a sick excitement—the realisation washes over me that, for the first time in our marriage, I hold control. No longer is this a test of my devotion. It’s a test for my wife.

That voice worms through my mind again:

How will she react? 

How far will she go?

A sudden splash from behind jolts me, and I quickly resurface. My sister propels herself through the water, and when she reaches me, I notice her lips are quivering and her breaths come in shallow and unsteady gasps.

“Where is she?” she blurts.

I point vaguely towards the distant horizon, seagulls circling above, but it’s too late. My sister’s eyes are fixated below, where the silhouette of my wife’s body, limp and unmoving, ripples beneath our kicking feet.

Her 

Sunlight worms its way through my eyelashes and I pry my eyes open, finding myself posed in the foetal position on the wet sand. My lungs throb and the remnants of my lunchtime Monte Cristo lay next to me in bile and chunks.

There’s panicked chatter around me. The distinct sound of my sister-in-law squawking down the phone, someone I assume to be the lifeguard shouting for everyone to keep their distance in his surf-bro twang. I try to sit up, but large hands lower me back down.

“How are you feeling?” a familiar voice asks. My eyes focus and my husband is crouched beside me, cue-ball head glinting in the sun. “You gave us all a little bit of a scare, there.”

“I’m sorry.” My voice comes out soft and all crackly. “I didn’t mean to.”

“No, of course, you didn’t.” He rubs at his bloodshot eyes and my insides flutter at the thought of him crying over me. “All that matters is you're safe now, okay?”

I smile at him, hoping the grit in my mouth isn't caught in my teeth. “What would I do without you?”

He parts his lips, as if to speak, and then squeezes my hand instead. He’s speechless. So full of love, so thankful I’m still alive, that he can’t describe it with words. Honestly, it’s not the reaction I envisioned, not how the scene played out in my head, but who am I to question his natural response? I squeeze his hand back, and then I remember... that face, looming above me like a full moon in the midnight sky, a twisted smile growing on his lips. My attention shifts to the frisbee still dancing on the horizon, a tiny orange pinprick in the vast expanse of blue.

“What took you so long to save me?” The words tumble from my mouth before I can catch them.

Him

My eyes burn. Sea salt has buried itself in my tear ducts, and my brain squelches with water. She has to ask me twice before I realise she’s speaking to me. It’s a good question, one which I knew I’d ultimately have to answer, but was hoping it wouldn’t be so soon. 

“I came as quickly as I could.”

It’s the wrong answer; a vein twitches in her neck.

Before I can try again, my sister rushes up, the phone still in her hands.

“The emergency services will be here any moment, okay?” She avoids my gaze and squats down to tuck a loose tendril of my wife’s hair behind her ear. She flinches at the contact. 

I consider telling my wife the truth, to watch her crumble into a million pieces, her body becoming indistinguishable from the sand. She doesn't realise that the hand she's recoiling from heaved her to the surface. And that the reason I couldn't answer her question was because I hadn't saved her at all. 

A siren wails in the near distance, a blue light grows brighter. 

My sister runs to the edge of the beach, waving down the ambulance.

“Is that for me?” my wife asks. The corner of her lip spasms as if she’s swallowing down a smile. 

A door slams and two paramedics rush out of the vehicle and across the sand, my sister next to them, pointing to where we’re situated. They are carrying a stretcher and I nearly laugh at the thought of my wife being strapped to it, like a pig on a spit. 

When they arrive, they huddle around her and check her vitals. I back away. It all feels make-believe, children playing doctors with plastic stethoscopes and tissue-paper bandages.

As I watch, I picture her wedding ring sitting at the bottom of the ocean, half-buried and oxidising, the metal band turning dull. But there it is; still latched on to her finger. It glints in the sunlight. Winking at me. Mocking me.

A paramedic shines a torch in her left eye, and yet, her gaze remains pinned to me, as if to say: See? This is serious. Are you taking this seriously?

Of course, I am, my love. In fact, I'm already pondering about the next time, however soon that might be. How long will it take for the inevitable? A slice too deep. A fall too hard. And how will I react? Together, how far can we go?