Second Serve

The papaya sat on the counter, its skin turning from green to an apologetic yellow, much like our marriage had softened into something neither of us could stomach anymore. Elena sliced it at breakfast, the juice running down her wrist, and I thought about how easily things rot when you stop paying attention.

We played padel every Tuesday at the club near our office. It was her idea—something about couples who sweat together staying together—but mostly it just gave us forty minutes to pretend we were teammates instead of roomships who'd forgotten each other's birthdays. I'd watch her across the court, her ponytail swinging, and wonder when we'd started keeping score.

"You're not even trying," she'd say when I missed an easy return, the ball clanking against the fence like an accusation.

"I'm tired, El."

"You're always tired."

My father had loved baseball. He'd take me to games, explain the statistics, tell me that life was about knowing when to swing and when to let it pass. He died last year, and at the funeral, Elena stood three rows back, checking her watch. That's when I knew—the bull had already left the pen, and we were just standing in the empty stall, pretending there was still something to feed.

Now the vitamins sit in my cabinet—a daily regimen I started at forty, trying to outrun mortality with B12 and omega-3s. Elena called them my denial pills. She wasn't wrong.

She's moving out next week. The padel membership expires in November. The papaya will probably rot before either of us eats it. And somewhere, my father is laughing at the idea that we ever thought we could beat the house.