The Art of Floating

Marcus stood in the center of the padel court, racket dangling from his grip like a dead limb. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, a persistent hum that matched the static in his brain. At 42, he'd become what his younger self would have scorned: a creature of routine, a corporate zombie moving through meetings and emails with glassy eyes and practiced enthusiasm.

The ball bounced near his feet—once, twice. He didn't move. His opponent, a twenty-something analyst from the mergers department, waited with the polite impatience of someone who hasn't yet learned that most games aren't worth winning.

"You okay, Marcus?" the kid asked.

Marcus thought of his daughter's goldfish, the one that swam in endless circles around its plastic castle, orange scales flashing in the living room aquarium. Last week, he'd found it floating at the surface, and for a moment, he couldn't tell if it was dead or just—resting. That was him now, he realized. Not dead. Just suspended.

"Fine," Marcus said, but his voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.

Later, he sat in his car in the parking garage, the engine running, watching the water bead on the windshield. The condensation blurred the world outside—streetlights melting into orange streaks, people reduced to shadows. He could go home. His wife would be there. They'd eat dinner, probably spinach and salmon or something else that promised longevity they both secretly doubted mattered.

Or he could keep driving.

His phone buzzed on the passenger seat—work email, undoubtedly. Something urgent that would seem trivial in six months, laughable in six years. He turned the phone face down and pressed his forehead against the steering wheel.

The goldfish had lived three years. Three years of circling the same plastic castle, and somehow, Marcus suspected, it had been enough. Maybe that was all any of them were really doing—circling, waiting for someone to remember to feed them, finding strange small beauties in the repetition.

Marcus started the car. Not toward home. Not toward the office. Just toward motion. Somewhere there was water that wasn't trapped behind glass. Somewhere, circles became lines.

He drove until the city lights faded, until the world outside was dark and unknowable and wonderfully indifferent to whether he was zombie or human, floating or swimming, dead or just waiting for someone to tap on the glass and remind him it was time to eat.