Bitter Greens

Mara stood at the padel court fence, watching Carlos laugh with someone new—some woman with perfect teeth and effortless grace. Three years ago, that laugh had been for her. They'd met at this same court, both terrible at the game, both running from divorces that hadn't quite happened yet.

Now she carried a container of wilted spinach in her bag, pathetic remnants of the garden they'd planted together. Carlos had insisted on growing vegetables, said it was what stable people did. The spinach was always bolting, always bitter—kind of like them, he'd joked during that last terrible fight, the one where she'd screamed that she was tired of being the only one trying.

"Mara?" His voice behind her. She hadn't heard him approach.

She turned. He looked older. Good, but older. "Your mother's recipe," she said, thrusting the spinach toward him. "From the freezer. I found it while packing."

Carlos stared at the container like it might explode. "You're finally moving."

"New job. Seattle." She hadn't told him. Hadn't wanted to.

He nodded, processing. "Baseball season starting. Remember how we'd go to games?"

"You went. I sat there wondering why you loved something so slow."

"It's not slow. It's—" He stopped. "It's about patience. About waiting for the right pitch."

"I waited, Carlos." Her voice cracked. "For three years, I waited for you to choose me. Really choose me. Not just when it was convenient, not just when you weren't busy with work or your ex-wife or your ridiculous garden."

The woman with perfect teeth was approaching. Carlos glanced over his shoulder, then back at Mara. His eyes were older than she remembered. "I never stopped choosing you," he said quietly. "I just... I thought we had more time."

"We don't." She dropped the spinach into the trash bin beside the court. "That's the thing about time. It runs out."

Mara walked away without looking back. The spinach would rot in some landfill. Carlos would probably marry Perfect Teeth and grow better vegetables. But she was finally, finally running toward something instead of away.

Her flight left at dawn.