Heart Rate at the Padel Court

Maria's palms sweated against the racket handle. Another Monday evening at the club, another padel match with coworkers who barely knew her. Thirty-two years old and she moved through life like a zombie—automatic, methodical, hollowed out by spreadsheets and quarterly targets.

"Your backhand's improving," David said between points, wiping sweat from his forehead. He'd joined the firm three months ago, bringing with him an easy warmth that made Maria's chest ache unfamiliar things.

She took a vitamin D supplement from her bag, capsules she swallowed religiously each morning, trying to compensate for fluorescent-lit days that began before sunrise and ended after sunset. Evidence of life maintained through chemistry.

"Your cat again?" David asked, noticing the notification lighting up her phone screen—Barnaby's vet appointment reminder. The universe's smallest hostage situation, she sometimes thought, though she loved the orange tabby fiercely.

"Yeah. He's the only one who sees me before 8 AM."

David's laughter surprised her. "I have a cat too. Pancake. She sleeps on my face."

Something shifted. They finished their match, but instead of gathering belongings and retreating to separate cars, they sat at the edge of the court, knees almost touching. He spoke about his sister's wedding, she described her apartment's stubborn leak. Ordinary details exchanged like sacred texts.

"Want to get dinner?" he asked, not checking his phone, not already calculating the next morning's commute.

Maria's palms stopped sweating. The zombie sensation dissolved, replaced by blood rushing to places that had been dormant too long. "Yes."

Her vitamin bottle sat forgotten in her bag. For once, she didn't need supplements to feel alive.