There are no chalk outlines when you drown. No street corners for vigil candles. Flowers drift with the current. I cry out your name through the murkiness until divers spot your braided necklace hugging the mooring chain. Weak swimmers rarely scream; they just submerge, especially when fleeing yet another fight.

Rich Gravelin writes from the woods of central Maine. His flash has been published in Microfiction Monday Magazine and 50 Give or Take. See more at themaineturtle.com.