Love Game

The padel court echoed with the satisfying thwack of ball against racket, but Elena couldn't find any satisfaction in it anymore. She adjusted her visor, sweat plastering stray hairs to her forehead, and watched Jorge lunge for a drop shot he'd already missed.

"You're thinking about the vitamins again," she said, between serves.

Jorge straightened, wiping his brow with the hem of his shirt. "I'm thinking about my prostate, Elena. The doctor said—"

"The doctor said you're forty-five, not dying." She bounced the ball, considering whether to end this match early. "You take more supplements than actual food. I saw you putting spinach powder in your coffee this morning."

"It's about longevity." His hat sat on the bench between games, a battered thing he refused to replace, like so much of their life together. "I want to be around for you."

Elena felt something tighten in her chest—not love, exactly, but its ghost. They'd been playing this match for eighteen years, and somewhere along the way, keeping score had become the whole point. Every vitamin deficiency, every forgotten anniversary, every time she'd changed her hair and he hadn't noticed until three days later—these were the points they traded across a net that had somehow become a wall.

"Do you remember," she said softly, "when we used to play for something fun?"

Jorge missed the next serve. The ball rolled toward the fence, forgotten. He looked at her, really looked at her, and she saw the realization dawn on his face: he'd been so busy trying not to lose that he'd forgotten how to play.

"I have spinach and eggs at home," he said. "No powder. Actual food."

Elena smiled, and for the first time in months, it reached her eyes. "I'll take the match point."