The Art of Losing

The morning sun bounced off the water in the pool as Maria served the padel ball across the court. Her husband David missed it, as he'd been missing everything lately — their anniversary dinner, the couples therapy appointments, the subtle invitations to reconnect.

"You're distracted," she said, walking to the net. Her hair plastered to her forehead with sweat.

David wiped his face with his wrist. "Work's been hell. The merger, you know."

Their dog, Buster, an aging golden retriever who'd been David's best man — they'd tied the ring to his collar — lay in the shade, thumping his tail against the concrete. Maria had bought Buster as a puppy the year they married. Now his muzzle was gray, his hips failing. Last week she'd found David crying in the backyard, just sitting with Buster's head in his lap.

"My father used to take me to baseball games," David said suddenly. "Every Sunday. The smell of popcorn, the crack of the bat. He'd disappear for days sometimes, but Sundays, he was there."

Maria softened. She'd never heard this. "What happened?"

"He died when I was twelve. Heart attack. Middle of the night." David looked at the pool. "I keep thinking about how he never said goodbye. Just... gone."

That night, after David fell asleep on the couch, Maria stood in their daughter's room. Ten-year-old Sophie was at her mother's, but her pet goldfish — won at a school carnival — swam in endless circles in its bowl. Maria watched its translucent fins, how it forgot each lap was the same as the last. Maybe that was a gift. To forget. To start fresh each time around.

She returned to the living room. David's eyes were open, watching her.

"I talked to my therapist," he said. "About the merger. About us." He sat up. "I'm scared, Maria. That I'm disappearing like my father. That I'm already gone and don't know it."

"You're not gone," she said, sitting beside him. "You're here."

"Am I?" He took her hand. His palm was warm, familiar. "I want to be."

The goldfish circled its bowl, and somewhere beyond the sliding doors, water lapped against the pool's edge. Buster sighed in his sleep. It wasn't forgiveness, not yet. But it was something like beginning again.