Concrete Pyramids

The ball hit the padel racket with a satisfying thwack, a sound Marco had come to rely on more than any conversation. Across the net, Thomas—at forty-three, his oldest friend—sweated through his shirt, chasing down shots with a desperation that had nothing to do with the score.

'You're letting your wife win this one,' Marco called, missing the next shot on purpose.

Thomas stopped mid-serve. 'She moved out last week.' He bent to retrieve the ball, not looking up. 'Took the cat. Left her pyramid scheme spreadsheets on the kitchen table.'

Later, over Greek salads at the place near the marina, Marco watched Thomas pick at his spinach like it might betray him. 'She didn't leave because of the supplements. She left because you're forty and still trying to find yourself.'

Thomas's laugh was a hollow thing. 'The therapist says I build pyramids.' He gestured with his fork. 'Start with a foundation that looks solid. Then just keep stacking, higher and narrower, until there's nothing left but this tiny point where everything has to be perfect or the whole thing collapses.' He pushed spinach around his plate. 'She was the foundation.'

Marco signaled for another round of drinks. The marina was emptying out, couples walking toward the parking lot, the heat finally breaking. 'My father once told me that real friendship isn't about showing up for the parties. It's about who brings the shovel when the pyramid collapses.'

Thomas looked up for the first time. 'You hate digging.'

'I hate seeing you alone in that apartment more.' Marco paid the bill, already calculating how to free his Saturday. 'Padel again Thursday?'

'You play like shit.'

'Makes you feel better, doesn't it?'

Thomas finished his spinach, finally. 'See you Thursday.'

Outside, the streetlights flickered on. Marco walked to his car alone, already feeling the relief that next week, he'd have someone to hit balls with again. Some pyramids were worth rebuilding.