Salt Water

The padel court shimmered in the heat, each racket strike echoing like a door closing. Elena watched her husband across the net, his white hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, and felt nothing. Not love, not hate—just the hollow ache of familiarity worn thin.

"Your serve," he called, grinning like he hadn't just spent six months sleeping on the couch. Elena gripped her racket until her knuckles whitened. Sixteen years of marriage reduced to this: a Wednesday morning game, polite conversation, and separate bedrooms.

Her dog lay in the shade beneath the bench, old Lab mix wheezing in the humidity. Bella was twelve, same age as their marriage when the rot set in. The vet had suggested vitamins for her joints, but Elena knew it was just borrowed time. Everything was borrowed time.

"You haven't been taking your vitamins," Richard said later, over lukewarm water bottles at the clubhouse. His observation hung between them, dripping with judgment. Always something she'd forgotten, something she'd done wrong.

Elena ran her fingers through hair that wasn't really hers anymore—so much dye, so many appointments to maintain the illusion of youth. "I've been busy."

"Busy." He laughed, dry and sharp. "Like when you forgot my mother's birthday? Or when you forgot to pick up Emma from soccer?"

Emma. Their daughter, away at college now, probably forgetting to call them both. The cycle continued.

"I need to walk Bella," Elena said, standing up so quickly her chair scraped against the concrete. It was an excuse, transparent and pathetic.

The dog struggled to her feet at Elena's approach, hips wobbling. Together they walked toward the parking lot, past the court where Richard stood alone, watching them go. For a moment, Elena considered turning back. Could say something honest for once. Could tell him about the nights she'd lain awake beside him, feeling his warmth but missing his presence.

Instead, she opened her water bottle and poured it into the portable bowl she'd brought. Bella lapped gratefully, tail giving one weak thump against the pavement.

"That's the thing," Elena whispered to the dog, words she'd never say to him. "We forget what matters until there's nothing left to remember."

The vitamins sat untouched in her kitchen drawer that evening. Richard came home at seven, carrying takeout, pretending everything was fine. And she pretended too, because that's what they did now. They'd forgotten how to stop.