One Point at a Time

The winter air bit at the back of my neck as I stepped onto the padel court. This was Marcus's idea. "You need to get out of the house," he'd said over whiskey that had gone warm in our glasses. "You need to hit something."

So here I was at 11 PM on a Tuesday, wearing a hat I'd bought at a gas station because I couldn't bear the weight of my own reflection in the rearview mirror. My hair had grown out in the six weeks since the funeral, unkempt and wild, like the rest of me.

Marcus appeared from the clubhouse, two racquets under his arm. He didn't ask how I was doing.

Marcus was that kind of friend.

We played in silence for the first set, the only sounds the thud of balls against the glass walls and my own ragged breathing. I had assumed Marcus invited me here to talk, to coax me into processing what happened, but he seemed content to let the game do the work.

Then his phone buzzed from the bench.

He checked it, sighed. "Sarah found my cat."

The words hit me like a backswing I hadn't seen coming. "You're getting back together?"

He shrugged, picked up another ball. "She's lonely. I'm lonely. The cat needs both of us."

"That's your reason?"

"It's enough of one."

I thought about the hat in my car, the way I'd pulled it low every time I left the house these past weeks. The way I'd stopped seeing myself in mirrors and started seeing someone else entirely.

"You're hiding," Marcus said, reading my mind. He always could read my mind.

"You think?"

"I know. You've been hiding since Elena died."

The name settled between us like something fragile.

Marcus served instead of waiting for me to respond. The ball sailed past me, untouched.

"She was your wife," he said softly. "It's been six weeks. Your hair looks like you haven't brushed it in days. You're wearing a hat indoors, in the middle of the night. Ben, you're not living."

I looked at my hands, at the racquet grip worn smooth from years I couldn't remember playing.

"I don't know how to start again."

Marcus walked to the net. "You don't," he said. "You just show up. You hit the ball. You play the next point."

He tossed me a fresh ball.

"One point at a time."