Lightning at the Palms

The padel court echoed with the rhythmic *thwack* of racquets against ball, a sound that had become the soundtrack to Elena's exile. She sat at the resort bar, nursing a gin and tonic that had gone warm, watching a couple play. They moved in synchrony—laughter, easy touches, the kind of effortless intimacy that makes solitude feel like a diagnosis rather than a choice.

"Another?" the bartender asked.

She shook her head, but her palm pressed against the condensation-slicked coaster betrayed her hesitation. Three months since David had said he needed space. Six weeks since she'd learned "space" meant a woman half her age who used words like "authentic" unironically.

A cat wound around her ankles—skinny, orange, one ear notched from some territorial skirmish. She reached down, and it accepted her touch with that particular feline calculation: affection rendered transactional.

"You staying for the storm?" an older man asked, settling onto the next stool. He had the weathered look of someone who'd seen enough. "Lightning's supposed to be spectacular."

Elena had read the forecast. A perfect storm rolling in off the coast, nature's poorly timed metaphor.

"I haven't decided," she said.

He laughed. "That's the problem with decisions, isn't it? We think we're making them, but most of the time, we're just taking the bull by the horns after the gate's already left open."

The first crack of lightning split the sky—white, silent, a fissure in the darkening blue. The padel players scattered, grabbing their gear. The cat ducked under a nearby palm tree, its fronds already thrashing in the gathering wind.

Elena stood up. The bartender looked at her expectantly.

"You know what?" she said. "One more. But make it a double."