Sunday's Bull

The orange slice floated in Elena's gin and tonic, a tiny sun sinking beneath the ice. She watched it from across the padel court, where Richard was already sweating through his third match of the morning, his shirt clinging to his back like a second skin.

Three years ago, this court had been where they'd first kissed—Elena laughing, Richard clumsy and endearing, both of them pretending not to know how to play. Now she watched him high-five his business partner, that easy confidence she'd fallen for now just another performance. The merger announcement came tomorrow. Richard would be CEO. She'd be the wife at the Christmas parties, smiling in photographs.

Their cat, Buster, had died two weeks ago. Richard had been in Tokyo. Elena had buried him in the garden alone, the ground unyielding, her hands raw from digging. When Richard returned, he'd patted her shoulder and said they could get a kitten. A kitten. As if grief were something you could upgrade.

"You're bull-headed about this," her sister had warned last night. "He's successful, Elena. He's building something."

"He's building a tomb," she'd answered.

Richard caught her eye from the court and waved, his smile so practiced it didn't reach his eyes. Elena picked up her drink, the orange slice now fully submerged, and thought about how some things eventually drown if you leave them underwater long enough.

She set her glass down. She'd packed her bags this morning. The car was parked at the edge of the driveway. In twelve minutes, Richard would finish his game, and Elena would be gone.

The ball bounced against the wall—rhythmic, relentless—like a heart still beating, for now.