The Goldfish at Sunset
The papaya sat untouched on the bedside table, its flesh already turning brown where Mateo had sliced it three hours ago. Elena watched it from the balcony, nursing a drink that had long since gone watery in the humidity. Below, the resort's pool glowed turquoise—unnatural, like something from a catalog she'd never ordered.
"You coming?" Mateo called from the doorway, already dressed for the padel court. He held his racquet like an extension of himself, confident in ways she'd forgotten how to be. His fedora—ridiculous in this climate—sat perfectly straight on his head. He hadn't once asked why she'd been crying in the shower that morning.
"In a bit," she said. "Think I'll swim first."
The pool was empty except for one couple in the far corner, their laughter too loud, performed for an audience that wasn't watching. Elena slipped into the water, letting it swallow her. Swimming had always been her meditation—weightless, silent, a world where nobody expected you to speak.
Beneath the surface, she remembered their first apartment. The cheap goldfish bowl they'd bought on impulse, how the fish had died within a week because neither of them remembered to feed it. They'd laughed then, young and stupid, thinking it was funny how easily life could slip through careless fingers.
She surfaced to find Mateo standing at the pool's edge, still wearing his hat. "I'm playing with Thomas from accounting," he said. "You sure you don't want to join?"
Elena tread water, watching the way the pool lights fractured around him. "I'm sure."
He didn't ask what was wrong. He never did anymore. Maybe he knew. Maybe that was worse than not knowing.
"I'll leave some papaya for you," he said, and turned toward the padel courts where other people played games with rules you could follow, where points were scored and someone always won.
Elena dove again, holding herself at the bottom until her lungs burned. Down here, in the quiet, she could almost believe they were still the kind of people who kept goldfish alive.