The Art of Losing

The goldfish had been floating sideways for three days before Marcus finally bothered to flush it. Another thing dead in this house.

"You couldn't even change the water," Elena said from the doorway, not looking at him. "You couldn't even do that one thing."

They were supposed to play padel at six. Their Friday game, the one ritual left from when they still liked each enough to feint and volley instead of just striking. Elena wore her tennis dress anyway, white skirt hiding the bruise on her thigh from where she'd walked into the table last night, drunk on whatever wine she'd brought home.

"I'm not going," she said.

Marcus nodded. He'd known. The goldfish's bowl sat empty on the counter, reflecting his distorted face back at him. He thought about the weight of things—how the bear at the cabin had lumbered through their campsite last summer, massive and indifferent, and how Elena had gripped his arm so hard it left marks. He'd wanted to shoot it. She'd wanted to let it pass. They'd fought about it for hours.

Some things you bore. Some things you didn't.

"Fox called," he said, watching her reaction. "He wants to know if you're coming to the retreat."

Elena's ex-husband. Simon Fox, with his money and his smug certainty that Elena would eventually crawl back. The retreat—some executive wellness thing in Costa Rica. He'd invited her months ago. Marcus had found out when he saw the email open on her laptop.

She looked at him then. "Don't."

"I'm just saying. He called."

"You think I'm going to leave you for him?" She laughed, but her eyes were wet. "Marcus. I'm not going anywhere. That's not what this is."

Then what was it? The empty goldfish bowl? The missed padel games? The way she'd started taking sleeping in the guest room? He thought about last night—how he'd reached for her and she'd flinched, just slightly. Like the bear's shadow passing over them.

"The goldfish is gone," he said. "It's not coming back."

"I know," she said. "I know."

She walked over to the empty bowl and traced the rim with her finger. "Marcus. About the retreat."

"You can go."

"That's not—" She stopped. Her hand trembled against the glass. "I want you to come too."

He watched her face. The same face he'd woken up to for twelve years. The same mouth that had said I do, that had said we're pregnant, that had said I can't do this anymore, not last night but the night before, and the night before that.

"To the fox's retreat?" he asked.

"Simon's not like that anymore. We're just friends. He wants to help. We need help, Marcus. Can't you see that?"

He looked at the empty bowl, the distorted reflection. A ghost fish swimming in nothing. A marriage in its sideways phase, floating but not living.

"Okay," he said. "Okay."