Margin of Error

Elena's backhand slammed against the padel court's glass wall, the sound echoing like the final period of a sentence she'd been waiting to write. Marcus stood at the net, racket hanging loose, his shirt already transparent with sweat despite the October chill.

"You're not even trying," she said, bouncing the ball on her racket strings.

"I'm thinking about Mr. Whiskers."

"The cat's fine, Marcus. Your sister's watching him."

"It's not the same." He moved toward the back wall, avoiding her eyes. "Remember when we got him? That shelter in Queens, raining, you insisted we take the one with the missing ear. Said he had character."

Elena's grip tightened on her racket handle. "That was seven years ago."

"Seven years," he repeated. "The goldfish lived longer than that. Remember that carnival? You won two, brought them home in that plastic bag, named them Picasso and Kahlo because you were feeling ironic that night."

"Picasso survived three weeks. Kahlo made it to month four before you forgot to change the filter."

"I was distracted. Work was—"

"Work was always everything." She served the ball hard; it sailed long, bouncing off the court fence. Neither moved to retrieve it. "We signed the papers yesterday, Marcus. The house is sold. The cat goes with you, that was the agreement. Why are we still playing this game?"

He laughed, short and bitter. "Because padel was supposed to be our thing. Sunday mornings, coffee after, pretending we were those couples in the brochure—the ones who grow old together, not apart."

A black cat slinked along the perimeter fence beyond the court, watching them with amber eyes. Marcus's face softened.

"You're right about the filter," he said quietly. "I was distracted. But not by work."

The silence stretched between them, longer than the court itself, filled with everything they'd never said and everything they no longer could.

"Game point," she said, tossing the ball up. "One more."

He stepped to the baseline, ready position, and for a moment, they were exactly who they used to be—before the fish died, before the cat became a custody arrangement, before seven years became just another statistic.

"One more," he agreed. And for three seconds, the ball stayed in play.