Dead Things Don't Float

The country club patio glowed amber at sunset, but Elena felt cold inside. She watched David across the padel court—his shirt clinging to his back, his laugh too loud as he high-fived his junior analyst, a woman named Sophie who wore her tennis skirt like a weapon.

Elena's gin and tonic had gone warm. She'd stopped drinking it an hour ago.

"You look like a zombie," David had told her that morning, while he selected his racket with the care of a man choosing a mistress. "Always so tired lately. Maybe you should start working out again."

She'd wanted to remind him that she used to play padel with him—before the promotions, before the country club membership, before the conversations that died mid-sentence. But what was the point?

Inside, the charity gala was in full swing. A silent auction, a pool tournament, the kind of event where marriages were measured in matching contributions and synchronized laughter. Elena had perfected the art of the zombie smile—eyes dead, mouth curved, nodding at nothing.

She drifted toward the pool room, drawn by the sharp crack of balls breaking. A group of executives stood around the felt table, drinks in hand, watches catching the light. They spoke of market shares and mergers the way men spoke of baseball stats—as if the numbers meant something, as if they weren't all just pretending to understand the game.

The baseball game flickered silently on the wall-mounted TV. Some team was down by three runs in the bottom of the ninth. Elena watched the batter swing and miss, and something in her chest cracked open.

Eleven years ago, David had taken her to a baseball game on their third date. They'd sat in the bleacher seats, drunk cheap beer, and when her team lost, he'd bought her a pretzel and said, "There's always next season." He'd meant it.

Now, across the room, David caught her eye. He didn't wave. He didn't smile. He just looked—assessing, evaluating, like she was a stock that had underperformed this quarter.

Elena set her untouched drink on a tray. She walked past the padel court without glancing at David, past the pool table where his colleagues laughed at something she didn't hear, past the silent baseball game where the batter finally struck out.

The valet brought her car around. The engine purred to life, something waking up after a long sleep.

Dead things don't float, she thought, pulling onto the highway. They sink. Sometimes you have to let them.