The Spinach Between Us

The cabana by the pool was empty except for one goldfish swimming slow, deliberate circles in a glass bowl on the counter. I watched it while waiting for my husband to finish his padel match with the resort's tennis pro.

"You're not even watching," Mark had said earlier, annoyed, when I'd declined to join them on the court. "It's not about the game. It's about networking."

"I'm tired," I'd said, which was true enough. But mostly I was tired of pretending his career trajectory was the axis around which our marriage rotated.

The server brought my lunch — grilled salmon with spinach. I picked at the spinach, thinking about how our marriage had shrunk to this: vacation networking events, strategic socializing, conversations that were really just negotiations.

I looked at my left hand. My palm was still smooth from the expensive moisturizer Mark's assistant had gifted me last Christmas. "For the wife," the note had read. Not "my wife's gift." Just "the wife." Like I was an accessory.

Laughter erupted from the padel court. I glanced over. Mark was high-fiving his opponent, head thrown back in genuine delight. I hadn't seen that expression in years — not directed at me, anyway. That joy was reserved for colleagues, for conquests, for anyone but the woman waiting by the pool.

The goldfish surfaced, mouth opening and closing silently.

I thought about the last time we'd been happy — really happy — and couldn't remember. Had it been before the promotions? Before the house with the pool? Before everything became about "the next step"?

My phone buzzed. Mark's name on the screen: "Done in 10. Make sure you're ready for the CEO's cocktail hour. Your dress. The red one."

I looked at the spinach on my plate, at the goldfish in its too-small world, at the man on the court who thought he owned my choices. Then I stood up, left my phone on the table, and walked toward the resort's exit.

The goldfish kept swimming circles. But I was done going nowhere.