Something always did.
That was one of the things I liked about diving.
Problems were usually specific.
A leaking hose.
A worn fin strap.
A customer breathing too quickly.
You identified the problem.
You addressed it.
Nobody asked whether the regulator had meant to betray you.
At noon, I walked to Rosa’s.
The café was busy enough that I had to wait near the door.
Three people recognized me.
One whispered.
One pointed with what she probably believed was subtlety.
The third approached.
“Are you the dive instructor?”
“Yes.”
“I loved what Savannah said about you.”
My stomach tightened.
“She didn’t say much.”
The woman’s smile faltered.
“I meant the part about—”
“Ellie.”
Rosa appeared beside us carrying two plates.
“Your table is ready.”
“I don’t have a table.”
“You do now.”
She guided me toward the back corner.
The woman returned to her friends.
“That was unnecessary,” I said.
