The Goldfish in the Net

Mara watched the padel ball arc over the net, a yellow comet suspended against the relentless Mexican sun. Ethan's return was sloppy—he'd been off his game all week, though she suspected it wasn't the heat.

"You're letting me win," she called out, wiping sweat from her forehead.

Ethan leaned on his racquet, chest heaving. "Maybe I just know when I'm beaten."

The words hung in the air like something fragile, something that could shatter if touched. They'd come to this resort to save their marriage, or at least to determine whether it deserved saving. So far, the score was tied in every sense that mattered.

Later, over dinner, she picked at her spinach salad while he stared at the muted television above the bar. Some baseball game, teams he'd bet on back when they still shared dreams about the future. Now they mostly shared silence and a rapidly diminishing joint savings account.

"The cable in our room is out," he said suddenly. "I called reception. They're sending someone."

"I wasn't planning to watch anything anyway."

"No. I suppose not."

They'd stopped watching things together months ago—first their shows, then each other. Mara remembered their fifth anniversary, when they'd won a goldfish at a carnival. They'd named him Lucky, a joke that aged poorly when the fish died within the week, floating belly-up in his bowl like an accusation.

That's what their marriage felt like now: something they'd won but didn't know how to keep alive.

"I saw you texting her," Mara said, the words escaping before she could call them back.

Ethan's fork paused halfway to his mouth. The baseball game on the screen went to commercial, some cheerful jingle that seemed grotesque in the sudden quiet between them.

"It's not what you think."

"It never is."

He reached across the table, his hand hovering over hers like the padel ball had hovered over the net—uncertain, waiting to be returned or dropped.

"I don't want a divorce, Mara."

"Then why does everything feel like one already?"

The fish had died because they'd forgotten to feed it. They'd been too busy fighting about things that didn't matter, distracted by the wrong things, letting something alive slip away through simple, devastating neglect.

"I'm tired of losing," he whispered.

Mara looked at his hand, then at the television where the baseball game had returned. The crowd was cheering for something that had already happened.

"Then stop playing," she said. "Or start playing to win."

The server returned the ball.