The Dead Things We Carry

The resort pool shimmered with that artificial turquoise that only exists in places desperate to convince you of happiness. Martin floated on his back, nursing the third gin and tonic he'd told himself he wouldn't order, watching corporate VPs from three different companies pretend they weren't checking their smartwatches beneath the water's surface.

"You coming to the padel court?" Sarah asked, lowering herself onto the adjacent lounge chair. She was the one person he'd actually liked from the merger team—sharp, tired, and nursing her own flask in a designer tote bag. "David from Accounting organized a tournament. Apparently it builds trust."

Martin laughed, the sound swallowed by the humidity. "I spent four hours yesterday pretending to care about synergy models. I think my trust-building quota is met."

"You look like a zombie, Mart."

"Feel like one too." He gestured at the collection of middle-aged men in polo shirts clustered around the court, their enthusiasm terrifyingly genuine. "They're playing a sport invented by rich people to sell more courts. It's like tennis with added desperation."

"It's not the sport's fault we're all hollowed out by forty." Sarah's voice had that soft edge that appeared sometimes, usually after the third drink. "My kid asked me yesterday what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told her I was already grown up and she said, and I quote, 'that's sad, Mom.'"

The sunset burned orange across the water, catching the condensation on their glasses. Martin thought about his apartment downtown, the baseball mitt gathering dust in his closet since college, the way his father had taken him to games every Sunday until the Sundays stopped happening.

"My brother fell for one of those multi-level marketing schemes," he said quietly. "Sends me motivational quotes about building your pyramid now. Wants me to join his 'team.'" He swirled his drink. "Told him I already have a pyramid scheme. It's called corporate America, and at least mine comes with dental."

Sarah laughed, real this time. "God, we're depressing."

"Realistic."

"Same thing these days." She stood up, smoothing her sundress. "Walk back with me? I hear the dead don't feel good alone."

Martin followed her past the padel court, where the game continued with manic energy, past the pyramid of imported champagne bottles arranged near the bar. The zombie feeling didn't lift exactly, but somewhere between the pool and the parking lot, beneath a sky beginning to bruise purple, he thought: tomorrow he'd dig out that baseball mitt. Maybe find a game. Maybe just remember what it felt like to want something.

"Hey Sarah?"

"Yeah?"

"Trust-building my ass. Let's get actual dinner. Just us."