Questions from the Baseline

Marco stood at the baseline of the padel court, racket heavy in his hand, sweat stinging his eyes. At 43, he was the oldest player in the Tuesday night league by a decade. His opponent Elena, twenty-eight and viciously athletic, bounced on the balls of her feet like she'd been mainlining vitamin supplements since birth.

"You look tired, Marco," she said, smashing a serve that kissed the corner of the service box.

He lunged, racket meeting ball with a hollow thwack. "Just conserving energy."

It wasn't entirely a lie. Since the divorce, Marco had been moving through his days like a zombie — present, accounted for, but fundamentally hollow. His apartment, stripped of Sarah's touches, felt like a stage set where someone else had performed the important scenes. He'd started taking those gummy vitamins she'd always left by the coffee maker, a small superstition. As if absorbing her daily rituals might somehow metabolize into missing her less.

The game stretched on, each point a small war. Elena played with joyful aggression; Marco played like he was trying to remember something he'd forgotten. The glass walls reflected his exhausted face back at him, multiplied into infinite Marcos, all aging in real-time.

"You know," Elena said between games, catching her breath, "my dad used to bring me here. Before he got sick."

Marco lowered his racket. The sphinx had spoken — Elena, who usually communicated through backhands and banter, had offered something riddle-like and fragile.

"He played?" Marco asked.

"He loved it. Said the glass walls made everything clearer." She smiled, but her eyes stayed distant. "Some days I think I'm still playing against him. Trying to finally beat him."

Marco understood suddenly: everyone on this court was haunting something. The dead, the lost, the versions of themselves they'd meant to become.

"He'd be proud," Marco said, and meant it.

They finished in silence. Elena won, but she hugged him afterward with unexpected fierceness. Walking to his car, Marco palmed the vitamins in his pocket. Tomorrow he'd buy new ones. His own. Maybe he'd even ask Elena to play next Thursday — as partners, not opponents. The night air was cool against his skin, and for the first time in months, he didn't feel like he was waiting to wake up.