The Goldfish at Center Court
The padel ball slammed against the glass wall, a sharp crack that echoed Maria's heartbeat. Across the court, David wiped sweat from his forehead, his iphone vibrating on the bench for the third time in as many minutes.
"Are you going to get that?" she asked, though she already knew the answer.
"Work," he said, not meeting her eyes. "Can't this wait?"
Everything could wait these days. Their marriage, their conversations, the life they'd been building together—paused like a buffering video with poor cable connection. Maria remembered when they'd met, how she'd been running late to a meeting and he'd held the elevator, that accidental smile that had changed everything.
Now, she couldn't remember the last time they'd really talked. Not about schedules or groceries or whose turn it was to walk the dog, but about the things that mattered. The dreams they'd shared, the fears they'd whispered in the dark.
"David?" she said softly.
He glanced at his phone again. "Maria, please, I'm trying to focus."
She thought about the goldfish they'd bought last month, a spur-of-the-moment purchase from a street fair. The bag had seemed so small in her hands, the fish swimming in endless circles. They'd named him Freedom, though really he was just trapped in glass, going nowhere.
"I think we're done," Maria said.
David finally looked at her. "What?"
"This. Us. The pretending."
The silence stretched between them like the tight cable of a bridge about to snap. Somewhere beyond the court, a car alarm began to wail.
"Maria..."
"You haven't looked at me in weeks," she said. "Not really looked. But your phone? You're always looking at that."
He opened his mouth, closed it. The phone lit up again.
"Answer it," she said. "It's probably more important anyway."
Maria walked to the bench, picked up her bag, and left him there on the court—him and his silent phone and the game they'd both stopped playing a long time ago. The goldfish at home would need feeding soon. At least something in that house was still alive.