The Last Serve

The padel court smelled of rubber and stale sweat, much like their marriage. Elena watched David return her serve with mechanical precision, his shirt clinging to his back in the humidity. Three years ago, they'd played here on their first date. Now, it was neutral ground for divorce negotiations.

"The goldfish died," David said between points, his voice flat. "Barnaby. Remember when we bought him?"

Elena's racket paused mid-swing. "Three years ago. We named him after your eccentric uncle who left us that money."

"Funny how things outlive their purpose." David smashed the ball into the wire fence. "The cable company called. They're cutting our service next Tuesday."

So this was it. The slow dismantling of shared things, one by one, like Barnaby gasping at the surface before floating belly-up. Elena remembered finding the fish—that flash of orange in a dreary pet store window, David laughing as he insisted on the elaborate castle for the tank. How hope had felt tangible then, swimming in circles.

"I'll keep playing padel," she said, suddenly tired. "The club membership is in my name."

David nodded, avoiding her eyes. He knew. He'd always known she was the better player.

"One more game," he said quietly. "For old times' sake."

They played in silence. Elena served. David returned. The ball's rhythm filled the space between them—thud, thud, thud—like a heartbeat slowing. Somewhere beyond the court, a cable snapped in the wind, taking down whatever it had been holding together. Tomorrow, they'd divide the assets. Tonight, there was only the game, the humidity, and the ghost of a fish that had lived three years in a glass castle, swimming endless circles without ever noticing the walls.