Glass Walls

The lightning flashed across the plate glass of the padel court, illuminating everything Elena didn't want to see.

"Your serve," Marcus called out from the opposite baseline. His voice echoed strangely in the enclosed space.

Elena checked her iphone on the bench—no new messages. Just the blue light glowing against the darkness like some ancient sphinx guarding its useless riddles. What had happened to them? They used to finish each other's sentences. Now they finished nothing—no conversations, no arguments, no lovemaking that didn't feel like a negotiated settlement.

"I'm thinking of getting a goldfish," Marcus said suddenly, bouncing the ball against his racket.

Elena stared at him. "What?"

"A goldfish. For the apartment. They say they're calming."

"Marcus, we're thirty-two years old. We're not getting a goldfish. We're supposed to be talking about whether we're staying married."

Another lightning strike illuminated his face—tired, closed off, the lines around his mouth deepening. He looked at her like she was the sphinx and he couldn't remember the answer.

"Can we finish the set?" he asked.

"Is that what we're doing? Finishing things?"

"Just play, Elena."

She served. The ball hit the wire fence. They both stood there as the rain began to drum against the glass walls, trapping them inside with everything they couldn't say.

The next morning, Marcus bought the goldfish. It swam in endless circles, three-second memory, same loop, same walls. Elena watched it and thought: at least it never has to remember it was happy once.