The Goldfish at Court

The goldfish had been swimming in circles for three months before Elena noticed it wasn't moving anymore. Just like her, she thought—trapped in a glass bowl of corporate marketing, going nowhere, and now finally still. She'd found it floating during her morning coffee break, alone in the breakroom, and flushed it without telling anyone.

Now she stood at the padel court, gripping her racquet until her knuckles whitened. The Friday game with Mark and Sarah from accounting had become her week's highlight, which she realized was pathetic as soon as the thought formed. Thirty-eight and her social life revolved around a rectangular court.

"Your hair's getting lighter," Sarah said, bouncing on her heels. "Summer suits you."

White hairs, actually. Elena touched them, feeling the texture of her own aging. She'd started pulling them out until she'd found one too many and given up.

Mark served, the ball slamming into the backglass. He was wearing that ridiculous cowboy hat again—bought drunk in Nashville, now never removed during games. It bounced as he lunged for Elena's return.

"You're going to hurt yourself," she called, but he missed anyway.

"I'm fine." He dusted himself off, hat askew. "So, David's leaving the firm."

Elena's stomach dropped. "What?"

"The bull finally caught wind of the embezzlement." Mark lowered his voice. "Financial found the discrepancies. He's gone by Monday."

David. Her lover of eight months. The man who'd promised he'd leave his wife, who'd held her last night and said "soon." The man who'd borrowed money from her.

The goldfish had died without anyone noticing. She'd died the same way—slowly, in circles, in cloudy water.

"You okay?" Sarah asked.

Elena looked at them—Mark's stupid hat, Sarah's concern, the court that had become her world. She thought about the goldfish, swimming in cloudy water until it couldn't anymore. How it had probably thought it was alive, right up until it wasn't.

"I need a minute," she said, and walked toward the parking lot, leaving her racquet against the fence.

She got in her car and sat there, Mark's hat still visible in the rearview mirror. She'd go back Monday, pretend everything was fine. Somehow, that seemed worse than dying in a bowl.