The Color of Goodbye

The orange sunset bled into the pool where Sarah's golden retriever, Buster, paddled frantically toward the floating tennis ball. Mark watched from the deck chair, nursing his third scotch of the afternoon.

"He's getting old," Sarah said, joining him with fresh drinks. "The vet says his hips are going."

Mark nodded, staring at the dog's once-graceful strokes now jerky with effort. "Like the rest of us."

The unspoken thing between them had grown too large to ignore. Fourteen years of marriage, countless Sunday mornings like this one, Buster swimming in the background while they pretended everything was fine. But Mark had found the apartment lease in her email. Sarah had noticed the way he checked his phone during dinner, waiting for messages that never came.

"Remember when we first got him?" she asked softly. "That little orange life jacket you insisted on because he was so scared of the water?"

"He was swimming like a fish within a week," Mark smiled, despite himself. The memory hit them both—their first apartment, the way they'd cheered from the pool's edge when Buster finally took that first confident stroke. They'd been so certain then, so drunk on possibility.

"Mark—" she started, just as his phone chimed.

He ignored it. Instead, he stood and walked to the pool's edge, where Buster had climbed out and was shaking water droplets onto the concrete, his fur darkened to rust against the orange tiles. The dog nuzzled Mark's hand, sensing something.

"Tomorrow," Mark said, not turning around. "I'll move out tomorrow."

Behind him, Sarah's exhale was barely audible. Buster pressed his wet body against Mark's leg, faithful and confused, as the last of the orange light disappeared behind the trees, leaving them in the familiar dark, together for one last night.