Water Under the Bridge

The padel court smelled of rubber and desperation. Elena wiped sweat from her forehead, watching Marco stretch his calf against the glass wall. Six years of marriage, twelve if you counted the dating before, and this was what they'd been reduced to: Saturday morning matches as scheduled and passionless as their sex life.

"You ready?" Marco asked, not looking at her.

"Always." Elena's voice was flat.

Their German Shepherd, Buster, lay on the concrete outside the court, head on paws, watching them with those judgmental brown eyes. He'd been Elena's excuse to stay home tonight. The dog needs walking, she'd said. The dog needs company. But Buster had heard them last night—the accusations, the crying, the silence that followed. Dogs knew. They always knew.

They played. The ball cracked against walls, a rhythm of aggression neither could admit. Marco smashed a winner that grazed Elena's shoulder. She didn't flinch. She just retrieved the ball from the corner, where a shallow puddle had formed from the morning's rain. Water dripped from the net overhead. She'd read somewhere that the human body was mostly water—mostly things that couldn't hold shape, that took the form of whatever contained them. Maybe that was her problem.

"Your brother called," Marco said between points. "About the cabin."

Elena missed her return. The ball sailed into the pool beside the court, splashing into chlorinated blue water. "What did he say?"

"He thinks we should sell."

The words hung in the humid air between them. The cabin was where they'd gone after their wedding, where they'd conceived the baby they lost two months in, where they'd promised forever under stars that seemed close enough to touch. Now it was just property, lines on a balance sheet, something else to liquidate.

Buster stood up and barked, a sharp, insistent sound.

"Let's finish this," Marco said.

Elena looked at him—at the man she'd loved so desperately it hurt, at the stranger he'd become. She looked at the water lapping at the pool's edge, at her distorted reflection rippling there. At the dog who loved them both, who probably loved what they used to be more than what they were now.

"You know what?" She walked to the gate, opened it. Buster trotted in, tail wagging, oblivious to the ending of things.

Marco frowned. "Where are you going?"

"I need to think." She stepped out of her court shoes, left them by the net. "Don't wait up."

She walked to the pool's edge and sat, legs dangling in the cool water. Behind her, the padel game continued—the sound of ball against wall, a rhythm without her, a heartbeat she no longer recognized.