The Weight of Water

The padel court echoed with the rhythm of a friendship that had survived three marriages, two bankruptcies, and countless unspoken regrets between them. Sarah's serve hit the wall with a satisfying thud, and Marcus, at forty-five, still moved with the athletic grace that had made him the district's baseball phenom two decades ago.

"You're holding back," Marcus called out, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Like you did at Julie's funeral."

The ball hit him in the chest. Hard.

"Fuck you, Marcus."

He caught it anyway, grinning that devastating grin that had gotten them both into trouble in college. "Same Sarah. Never could take a hit without swinging back."

Afterward, they sat on the bench outside her apartment building, the evening humid with approaching rain. Her cat, a sullen tabby named Disaster, watched them through the ground-floor window, judging them, as cats did, with ancient detachment.

"Remember swimming in the quarry?" Marcus asked, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "That summer after graduation?"

She remembered. The water had been shockingly cold, the sun setting behind limestone cliffs, their bodies slick and young and impossibly alive. They'd kissed there—she'd almost left her fiancé for him. Almost.

"We were stupid," she said.

"We were alive."

His phone buzzed. His wife. Again.

"You should go."

"Sarah—"

"Go, Marcus. Before one of us says something we can't pretend we didn't mean tomorrow."

He left. She watched his retreat through Disaster's disapproving gaze in the window, the cat's tail twitching with feline wisdom. Some friendships, she thought, were like holding your breath underwater—you could do it for a surprisingly long time, but eventually, inevitably, you had to surface.

She went upstairs alone and drew a bath, sliding into water that couldn't wash away anything, but could, at least, hold her weight.