The Goldfish at Court Seven

Mark stood on the padel court at 7 AM, sweat already pooling at the base of his spine. His vitamin supplements sat heavy in his stomach—a D3, a B-complex, and that expensive multivitamin Sarah swore had changed her life. Across the net, David served, the ball cracking against the glass wall.

They'd been friends for twenty years, since the startup days when sleep deprivation had felt like a badge of honor. Now Mark felt like a zombie—same commute, same quarterly targets, same carefully modulated enthusiasm in meetings where he forgot what he was supposed to be excited about before he even left the room.

"Your backhand's getting sloppy," David called, retrieving the ball.

Mark didn't care. He'd stopped caring about most things three years ago, around the time his daughter asked why he always looked so tired during breakfast. He'd bought her a goldfish then, a miserable orange creature that lived in a too-small bowl on her dresser. "See?" she'd said. "He forgets he's sad every three seconds. That's a superpower."

The fish died six months later. Nobody noticed for two days.

"Rachel left me," David said suddenly, bouncing the ball, not meeting Mark's eyes.

The glass wall caught Mark's reflection—receding hairline, the soft middle that no amount of padel or vitamins seemed to touch. Behind him, the office towers were just beginning to glow with artificial light, thousands of people elevating to their cubicles.

"You want to grab a drink?" Mark asked. "Talk about it?"

David shook his head. "Can't. Board meeting."

They finished their game in silence. Later, Mark would stare at his computer screen, forgetting what he was supposed to be working about every three seconds, and wonder if that was a superpower after all.