The Weight of Water

The goldfish had been floating sideways for three days. Elena watched it through the glass, its orange scales dulling like a forgotten penny in a fountain. "It's just a fish," Marcus had said when she called him that morning, his voice thin with the distance of three years and two failed marriages between them. "But it was OUR fish," she'd wanted to scream. Instead, she'd agreed to meet him at the padel court, their usual Saturday spot, though they hadn't played in months.

The court baked in the afternoon sun, the blue artificial surface blindingly bright. Marcus arrived wearing his old running gear, the shoes worn thin at the heel—a testament to the marathon training he'd thrown himself into after Sarah left. He looked good. Leaner. Harder. Elena hated how much it still stung to notice.

"You're still keeping that fish alive?" he asked, bouncing the ball between his racket and the concrete. His serve had always been vicious, and nothing had changed. The ball cracked against the back wall, echoing like a gunshot in the enclosed space.

"It's dying," Elena said, returning the ball with more force than necessary. Her shoulder protested—she wasn't twenty anymore, neither of them were. "Everything dies eventually, Marcus. Even friendships."

The ball rolled to a stop between them. They stood there, sweating in the heat, the silence stretching like the shadow creeping across the court. Marcus had started running after his second divorce, logging hundreds of miles to escape the quiet of his empty house. Elena had bought the goldfish on impulse, needing something to care for after her mother passed, needing to prove she could keep something alive.

"I met someone," Marcus said suddenly, not meeting her eyes. "She's wonderful. She hates fish."

Elena laughed, surprised by the bark of sound in her throat. "Of course she does." She walked to the net, reached across it. Marcus's hand was calloused from the racket grip, familiar and foreign all at once. "Flush the fish, Marcus. It's time."

"We're talking about a pet, not us," he said, but his grip tightened, just for a moment.

"Aren't we?" Elena pulled away first. Always first. "Go for your run. I have a fish to bury."