The Sunday We Stopped Pretending

The padel court echoed with the sharp crack of racquet against ball, but my mind was elsewhere—specifically, on the text message I'd sent two hours ago that remained stubbornly unanswered. Marcus returned my serve with a grin that didn't reach his eyes, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt.

'You're playing like your dog died,' he said, retrieving the ball from the fence.

'Max is fine,' I lied. 'Just tired.'

Later, over dinner, I pushed spinach around my plate while he talked about his promotion—the one he'd accepted without discussing it with me first. The timing of the baseball game on the bar TV seemed deliberate, bottom of the ninth, two outs, everything riding on one pitch.

'My mother called,' I said, finally meeting his gaze. 'She asked about the sphinx riddle again.'

Marcus's fork paused midway to his mouth. We both knew what that meant: the old metaphor she'd used since our wedding, about the creature who devours those who cannot answer its question. What is it that walks on four legs in the morning, two at noon, and three in the evening? The answer was always a man, but the real question—the one neither of us had spoken aloud in six months—was simpler: what kind of marriage survives when you stop recognizing the person across the table?

'You're still upset about Chicago,' he said, not a question.

'I'm not upset. I'm just done pretending.' The spinach tasted like dust. 'You took the job. You bought the one-way ticket. The only thing you asked me to pack was your patience.'

The dog wheezed from his bed by the sliding door. In three weeks, he wouldn't be ours anymore—Marcus's sister had agreed to take him, since pets weren't allowed in his corporate apartment downtown. Another decision made without me.

'Baseball's almost over,' Marcus said, nodding at the screen. 'Extra innings.'

'That's the problem,' I said quietly. 'We keep playing long after the game should've ended.'