Maintenance Required

Elena stared at the coaxial cable dangling from the wall like a dead snake. Six months after Marcus left, and she still hadn't called the cable company. Why would she? Most nights she just sat in the dim glow of her laptop, scrolling through dating profiles of men who looked like they'd been photographed against their will.

Her hair had started doing that thing again—thinning at the temples, the way it had during her divorce. She'd pull it back tight, tell herself it was practical, but really she was just hiding.

"You should come," Sarah had said earlier that day. "Padel tonight. First round's on me since Tom's out of town."

Elena had declined. She hated padel. All that squeaking rubber on acrylic, the forced joviality, the way everyone acted like burning three hundred calories in an air-conditioned court was some kind of spiritual achievement. But mostly she hated it because Sarah and Tom played together, couples' league, matching outfits, the whole performance. Watching them was like watching a nature documentary about a species that no longer existed in her habitat.

She opened the fridge. A wilted bag of spinach, expired yogurt, three half-empty wine bottles. The spinach had turned into something resembling沼泽 vegetation. She remembered buying it with grand plans of salads, smoothies, whatever constituted self-care now. Instead it sat there, judging her.

On the TV, which she'd somehow reconnected using duct tape and whatever cables Marcus hadn't taken, a zombie marathon played. Not the fast ones—old school, slow zombies. She found them comforting. Their relentless, mindless pursuit seemed somehow more honest than modern dating. At least zombies were straightforward about what they wanted.

Her phone buzzed. A dating app notification: "Someone new likes you!"

Elena looked at the screen, then at the spinach, then at the zombie shuffling across a deserted field on her television.

She grabbed her keys.

"I'll be there," she texted Sarah. "Which court?"

The spinach could wait. The cable could wait. Tonight, she would squeak. She would sweat. She would pretend that everything was fine. That's what adults did. That's the game. And she was tired of playing it alone.