Alive at the Court

The orange glow of sunset hit the padel court as Mark served, his racquet cutting through the humid air. Sweat dripped down his back—he hadn't felt this alive in months. Across the net, Sarah returned it effortlessly, her ponytail swinging with each movement.

"You're distracted," she said, bending to retrieve the ball. Her shirt clung to her skin in ways Mark tried not to notice. She was married. He was separated. The universe had terrible timing.

"Work," he lied. Truth was, he'd spent another day moving spreadsheets from one column to another, feeling like a corporate zombie—present, breathing, but somehow not living. His coworkers shuffled through the open-plan office like the undead, eyes glazed from blue light, souls eroded by quarterly targets.

His iPhone buzzed on the bench. Again. Probably Elena asking about the divorce papers, or maybe his mother wanting to know if he'd found God yet. He ignored it.

"You gonna get that?" Sarah asked, gesturing with her racquet.

"It can wait."

"She's persistent. Your... ex?"

"Soon-to-be."

Sarah nodded, understanding passing between them like the ball they traded back and forth. She'd been through it twice herself. The court had become their sanctuary—three times a week, they hit this orange ball against glass walls, pretending their lives weren't falling apart outside the fence.

"I bought oranges at the market today," she said suddenly, serving. "My daughter loves them. Peels them and leaves the pieces everywhere like confetti."

Mark missed the return. The ball bounced past him, rolling toward the fence.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he said, but his phone vibrated again, lighting up the bench like a pulse. This time he walked over, squinting at the screen.

It wasn't Elena. It was a notification he'd been waiting three months for: the pathology lab. His stomach dropped.

"Mark?" Sarah's voice softened. She walked to the net. "Whatever it is—you've got this."

He looked up from the screen, the orange court blurring. Maybe the zombie comparison was wrong. Zombies didn't feel fear. They didn't feel hope. They didn't feel their heart racing as a woman across the net looked at them like they were the only person in the world who mattered.

"Can we replay that point?" he asked, pocketing the phone.

Sarah smiled. "Same score. Same everything. Just us and the ball."

Mark exhaled. For now, that was enough.