What Remains

The hat belonged to his father. A wide-brimmed thing that smelled of tobacco and cedar, now perched on Elena's head as she smashed the padel ball against the court wall. Marcus stood at the baseline, sweat trickling down his temples, watching her hair—cut short last week, jagged at the nape—bounce with each swing. They'd agreed to this Sunday game as part of their divorce mediation. Something about maintaining normalcy for the kids.

Normalcy. His daughter's goldfish had died three days ago. She'd cried for twenty minutes, then asked if they could get a dog. Marcus had flushed the fish without ceremony, watching its orange scales spiral into darkness, and felt something break inside him. Not grief, but the terrifying realization that he could contain entire lifetimes in a toilet bowl.

'You're staring,' Elena called from across the court, adjusting the hat. She looked good. Too good. The new hair, the return to tennis skirts, the way she moved like someone who'd remembered how to inhabit her body.

'I'm not,' Marcus lied, returning her serve with a weak backhand. The ball hit the net.

'Yes, you are. You're looking at me like I'm already gone.' She walked to the net, her racquet dangling. 'We're still playing, Marcus. That's the point.'

He wanted to tell her about the goldfish. About how he'd bought the replacement at PetSmart yesterday, same orange speckles, and their daughter hadn't noticed the difference. About how this had made him question whether anything was unique, or if everything in their lives—the fights, the forgiveness, the ten years of mornings—could be replaced with something indistinguishable from the original.

Instead, he adjusted his grip on the racquet. 'Your serve.'

Elena studied him, then placed his father's hat on her own heart—a mockingly courtly gesture that somehow felt like goodbye. 'You know what's funny?' she said. 'I think you're the one who's already gone.'