Taxidermy

The bear had been watching them for three hours. Mounted above the clubhouse bar at the Padel Club, its glass eyes tracked every serve, every unforced error, every forced laugh.

"Your backhand," David said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the wristband she'd bought him last Christmas. "You're not following through."

Sarah bent to retrieve the ball, her ponytail dripping. The third set was tied, and they were the only ones left on the courts. The Friday night crowd had thinned to nothing. "I'm tired, David. Maybe we should—"

"One more game."

He said it the way he said everything these days: as a statement that tolerated no negotiation. As a tax attorney who billed four hundred dollars an hour, David approached Padel the same way he approached their marriage—with aggressive serves, relentless pressure, and an assumption that victory was his due.

Sarah straightened, the ball in her hand. She thought about waiting in the car for two hours last week while he took that call from Tokyo. She thought about the dog, Buster, waiting at home—probably anxious, probably needing to go out. She thought about the bear above the bar, caught mid-charge, preserved forever in a moment of violence it would never complete.

"You know," she said, tossing the ball up and catching it, "my mother asked when we're going to start trying."

David's face went still. The patio lights reflected in his sunglasses. "We talked about this. After I make partner."

"That's what you said about the dog. Remember? 'After the bar exam.' Then 'after the first review.' Buster's seven, David."

"The dog is fine. We're fine. Serve the ball."

Sarah hit the ball into the net.

"There," David said, already walking to the baseline. "That's what I mean. Your head's not in the game."

"My head," she said, "is exactly where it needs to be."

She walked to the net, dropped her racquet, and let it lie there on the artificial turf. Something shifted in the space between them, and David finally stopped moving. The bear watched from above the bar, its massive paws suspended in glass and fur, forever caught between violence and stillness.

"I'm leaving," she said.

David laughed—a sharp, incredulous sound. "What? Because of your backhand?"

"Because I'm done living as a trophy on someone's wall." She picked up her bag. "I'll pick up Buster. You can call me when you figure out what you actually want."

The bear didn't blink. She walked off the court and didn't look back.