Drop Shot

The iPhone buzzed against the nightstand, its screen illuminating the dark bedroom with an accusing blue glow. Sarah's heart already knew before her eyes confirmed it. A message from 'Work' at 2:17 AM: 'Can't stop thinking about today. Same time tomorrow?'

She'd been walking her golden retriever, Buster, when Mark had texted from the padel court—same court where they'd played doubles every Tuesday for three years, where his business partner Elena had started joining them 'for practice' two months ago. Sarah had stayed home with Buster those nights, telling herself she was being silly, that she hated padel anyway.

Now Buster stirred at the foot of the bed, sensing her distress, and moved to rest his chin on her feet. His unconditional affection felt like salt in the wound. How many times had she skipped their morning walks because of early meetings? How many times had she cancelled plans with friends to accommodate Mark's schedule?

She picked up the phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. Part of her wanted to wake him, to scream, to throw the device against the wall. But another part—the part that had built a life with this man, that had navigated career sacrifices and mortgage payments and fertility treatments—wanted to pretend she'd never seen it.

Mark shifted beside her, murmuring in his sleep. His phone lay inches from his face, dark and innocent.

Sarah slipped out of bed, Buster following silently. They walked to the kitchen, his nails clicking softly on the hardwood. She filled his water bowl, then stood at the window watching the predawn light bleed into the sky.

She could leave. She could pack a bag, check into a hotel, file for divorce. She could destroy him in court—she was the better attorney anyway. But standing there in her bathrobe with her dog pressing comfortingly against her leg, she realized the hardest truth: she didn't know what she wanted anymore.

The iPhone on the counter remained dark, holding its secrets. In the bedroom, her husband slept on, unaware that everything had already changed.