Chapter 2 - The Taste of Copper
The scream hit the back glass sliding door and bounced off, muffled by double-paned heavy glass, but I didn't need to hear it to know its pitch. It was the sound of a woman whose carefully constructed universe had just discovered a structural crack, right at the foundation.
From my vantage point inside the cool, air-conditioned kitchen, I watched through the condensation-beaded window as Elena thrashed toward the shallow end steps, her bare feet slipping against the submerged fiberglass. Next to her, Marcus—or whatever his real name was, though on our joint credit card statements at the local Italian bistro he was listed under the charming alias of 'Consulting Services'—stumbled forward, his arms flailing as he tried to catch his balance in water that suddenly felt wrong.
Wrong was an understatement.
At 5:30 AM, while Elena was still fast asleep upstairs dreaming of her Thursday routine, I had unscrewed the chlorine and chemical feeder access ports behind the pool’s main pump system. I hadn't added more chlorine. I had done the exact opposite. I had introduced a calculated, high-potency cocktail of copper-based algaecide and a specialized industrial pH-lowering compound designed to react instantly upon contact with organic mineral runoff. More importantly, I had diverted the main intake line so that the chemical surge would hit the shallow end—specifically the steps and the seat ledge where they liked to lounge—exactly two hours after the filtration cycle kicked back on.
Right around the time they decided to take their second dip.
“David!” Elena shrieked again, finally clawing her way onto the top step, her hands clutching at her throat.
Her skin, usually a sun-kissed olive tone maintained by weekly sessions at the local tanning salon down on Glenwood Avenue, was already reacting. Red blotches were blooming across her collarbones and shoulders. The copper didn't burn—not immediately, not dangerously—but it stained. It coated everything it touched with a distinct, metallic film that reacted with the expensive self-tanner she had applied just the night before, turning her skin a brilliant, unmistakable, vibrant shade of neon blue-green.
She looked like a suburban Greek statue that had been dragged from the bottom of the Atlantic.
Marcus scrambled up behind her, sputtering, wiping water from his eyes. His designer swim trunks were soaked, and his slicked-back dark hair was plastered against his forehead, revealing a receding hairline he usually worked very hard to hide.
“What the hell is in this water?” he barked, his voice cracking as he looked down at his own arms, which were rapidly acquiring a matching turquoise tint. “My skin—what is happening to my skin?”
Elena didn’t answer him. She didn't care about Marcus. She was staring straight through the kitchen window at me, her chest heaving, her eyes wide with a mixture of absolute fury and sudden, paralyzing terror. She knew me. She knew that I never did anything without a reason. For seven years of marriage, my greatest flaw in her eyes hadn't been anger or cruelty; it had been my terrifying, methodical predictability.
I picked up my coffee mug, took a slow, deliberate sip, and gave her a small, polite wave.
Then I turned around, walked out of the kitchen, and locked the back door from the inside.
***
The panic outside escalated before the front door even rattled.
I heard the frantic patter of wet footsteps rushing around the side of the house—past the immaculate hydrangea bushes, down the paver walkway where the black BMW SUV sat waiting like a guilty accomplice. A fist pounded against the back glass, hard and frantic.
“David! Open this door right now! Open the damn door!”
I didn't move. I walked calmly into the entryway, hung my keys back on the brass hook by the coat rack—even though I hadn't actually gone to work, the theater of the routine mattered—and walked toward the front hallway.
The pounding shifted to the front door. The heavy oak door shook in its frame.
“David, I swear to God, if you don't open this door, I am going to call the police!” Elena screamed, her voice shrill, cracking with humiliation.
I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open with a quiet click.
Standing on the porch was a sight straight out of a low-budget horror-comedy. Elena was wrapped haphazardly in a dry bath towel she must have snatched from the patio lounger, her skin streaked with bright turquoise patches that contrasted sharply with her wet red bikini. Her hair was matted, and her mascara had run down her cheeks in dark, jagged tracks.
Behind her stood Marcus, clutching his car keys in a white-knuckled grip, trying desperately to wipe the blue residue off his forearms with a corner of his polo shirt. He looked less like a suave corporate executive now and more like a drowned rat caught in a chemical spill.
“What is the meaning of this?” Marcus demanded, puffing out his chest in an instinctive, pathetic display of masculine posturing. He took a step forward, trying to loom over me. “You poisoned the pool! I’m going to have my lawyer—we are calling the authorities right now—”
I didn't look at Marcus. My eyes remained fixed entirely on my wife.
“Welcome back inside, honey,” I said softly, my voice completely devoid of inflection. “You look... different today. Vibrant. Very seasonal.”
Elena’s face twisted, her mouth opening and closing as she searched for words that wouldn't incriminate her further while standing on her own front porch, dripping wet and bright blue, next to a man who was supposed to be in Charlotte on a regional sales convention.
“David,” she choked out, her voice dropping an octave as she realized the sheer absurdity of threatening the police when her infidelity was standing right beside her in broad daylight. “David, please. Let’s just... let’s talk inside. Don’t make a scene in front of the neighbors.”
May you like
I glanced past her shoulder. Down the street, Mrs. Higgins, our eighty-two-year-old neighbor who spent ninety percent of her day peering through the sheer white lace curtains of her front window, was currently watering a single fern on her porch with a dry hose. She hadn't moved her eyes from our driveway in three minutes.
“Too late for that, Elena,” I murmured, stepping back to let them in. “Besides, I think the neighbors are already enjoying the show.”
