Gravity at the Padel Club

The running started three months after the divorce — not the athletic kind, but the midnight variety. Mara found herself at 24-hour diners, parking lots of closed offices, anywhere that wasn't the apartment where Ben's cat still sat on his side of the bed.

Then came the padel club membership, her therapist's suggestion for structured social contact. Now she stood at court four, paddle in hand, watching her partner — a man named David who sold medical devices and joked about his cholesterol — serve against a couple in their fifties who'd been playing together since the original Bush administration.

The ball hit the wire fence. Sounded like something final.

"Your form's improving," David said afterward at the club's pool. His words floated on the water's surface, disregarded. Mara sat on the edge, feet in the water, nursing a gin and tonic she'd ordered mostly to have something to hold.

The pool's surface reflected twilight and the distant highway's running lights. Somewhere, her phone buzzed. Ben, probably. The cat had stopped eating again. The cat whose adoption had been their anniversary present, now living with Ben in what used to be their house, now apparently depressed.

"You okay?" David asked. He'd removed his shirt. Pale skin, interesting scar near the ribs.

"Fine. Just." She gestured vaguely. "Life."

He nodded, understanding nothing. That was the thing about adults — everyone was carrying something, but the rule was you didn't inspect each other's luggage. Still, he sat beside her, not touching but close enough that his arm hairs brushed hers occasionally.

"My wife left last year," he said. "Started running marathons afterward. Four so far."

Mara laughed, surprised by its genuineness. "I literally just started running away from things."

"Works too."

The pool's mechanical cleaning system hummed. Somewhere in the distance, someone called for a reservation at the club restaurant. Life kept running, insistently ordinary, while she sat here feeling like a wound that wouldn't close.

"The cat's still with him," she heard herself say. "I keep waiting for it to be less symbolic."

David tilted his head. "Cats don't do symbolism. They do attachment."

"What's the difference?"

He grinned, unexpectedly lovely. "About fifteen years of therapy." He stood up. "Same time next week?"

"Sure." She meant it.

Later, driving home, Mara's phone buzzed again. Ben: Cat's fine. Sorry to bother.

She parked outside her building and sat in the running car, watching streetlights pool on the dashboard, not moving, not running anywhere for the first time in months. Some mornings you just had to sit still and let yourself be found.