The Point of Impact

The golden retriever sat by Court 4, watching the padel game with what David could only describe as judgment. Three years since Elena left, and somehow her dog still managed to appear in his life at the worst moments.

"Your form's collapsing," Sarah called from across the net, sweat gleaming on her collarbone. She was everything Elena wasn't: uncomplicated, present, allergic to drama. David had met her at grief therapy—she'd lost her mother; he'd lost his marriage and his sense of self in one clean stroke.

The dog barked as David missed an easy volley. The ball sailed into the fence.

"That's the fourth one," Sarah said, not unkindly. "You're thinking about her again."

"The dog is hers," David admitted, leaning against his racket. "Barnaby. I haven't seen him since the divorce. Elena got him in the settlement. Said he reminded her too much of me."

Sarah's expression softened. She walked to the net, her movement fluid and certain. "You know what she said to me at that party last month?"

David's stomach tightened. "You talked to Elena?"

"She came up to me at Julia's birthday. Drunk as hell." Sarah hesitated. "She said the spinach lasagna was never about the spinach."

The words hit David like the ball he should have returned. That fight—their last—had started over burned spinach lasagna. But it had never been about dinner. It was about how Elena had stopped showing up for their life together, how every conversation felt like pulling teeth, how David had started eating alone most nights while she worked late on cases she never discussed.

"She said she chose wrong," Sarah continued. "Then she threw up in the sink."

The dog trotted over to David, nudging his hand with that familiar insistence, demanding affection like a debt owed. David knelt, buried his fingers in the golden fur, breathing in the scent that had permeated his sheets for seven years. Barnaby licked his wrist, once, twice.

"She wants him back," someone called from the next court. "Elena. She's outside in her car. Too chickenshit to come in."

David stood slowly, his knees cracking. Sarah watched him, her face unreadable. The game wasn't over, but something else was.

"Your shot," she said.

The dog waited. Sarah waited. Somewhere beyond the glass, Elena waited. David bounced the ball once, twice, three times. Then he walked toward the exit, leaving his racket by the net.

Barnaby followed.