The Dog Who Knew

The padel court echoed with the sharp crack of ball against wall, a rhythm that had once been Elena's meditation. Now it just reminded her of Saturday mornings with Mark, of sweat and competition and the way he'd smirk when he won. She stood at the baseline, racquet loose in her grip, while Barnaby — their dog, now just hers — lay on the sideline concrete, chin on paws, watching her with those discriminating golden eyes.

"You're overthinking your backhand," Mark had told her a thousand times. She hated that he was right even in absence.

Later, at the bistro down the street, she ordered the spinach salad because it felt like something a person who was moving on would eat. Healthy, deliberate, uncomplicated. The waiter poured sparkling water into her glass, tiny bubbles rising like resolve, and she thought about how three months ago she and Mark had come here after their final tournament. They'd split a bottle of wine and talked about the future as if it were something they could negotiate.

The spinach was bitter. Or maybe that was just the taste of remembering.

Barnaby whined softly from under the table. He still looked for Mark in parking lots, still perked up at footsteps that weren't Mark's. Elena reached down, buried her fingers in the fur around his ears. Dogs didn't understand separation; they only understood presence and absence, and he was navigating both with a grace she couldn't summon.

"Good boy," she whispered. And then, because the padel match had stirred something loose in her chest, she added, "I know you miss him too."

Barnaby lifted his head, tail giving a single cautious thump against the chair leg. Outside, the summer storm broke, water sheeting down the windows in blurry rivulets, washing the world clean for the thousandth time. Elena watched it happen and thought maybe that was the thing about endings — they kept ending, over and over, until eventually you started to believe them.