The Goldfish at Center Court

The sweat from Elise's hair dripped onto the padel court as she missed yet another return. The yellow ball skittered away, mocking her.

'You're distracted,' Marcus said from across the net. He'd been saying versions of this for months. 'It's like you're not even here.'

She wasn't. She was thinking about the goldfish floating belly-up in the bowl that morning, how she'd flushed it without crying. How she'd felt relieved—one less living thing depending on her to remember to feed it.

Their dog, Barnaby, was at Marcus's feet now, watching the ball with that tragic optimism dogs have. Good old Barnaby. At least someone still believed she'd come through.

'Elise?' Marcus's voice sharpened. 'Are we doing this or not?'

'Not,' she said, surprised by her own honesty. She walked to the bench where her phone sat, a black mirror reflecting nothing. The charging cable lay coiled beside it like a sleeping snake.

Her mother had called that morning. The hospice nurse said it could be days now. Elise had meant to tell Marcus. She'd meant to tell him a lot of things lately—how she'd stopped taking the pills, how she'd been driving to the ocean at 3 AM, how she'd started keeping a bag packed in the trunk.

'Marcus,' she said. He was bouncing the ball now, impatient. 'I flushed the goldfish.'

He stared at her. The silence stretched between them like the ocean she'd been visiting at dawn.

'And I think,' Elise continued, 'I think we're next.'

The dog whined. Marcus dropped the ball. It rolled toward the fence, forgotten, as the truth settled onto the court between them—heavier than a life, harder than a heart, finally undeniable.