Second Set at Sunset

Marcus stood on the padel court at sunset, the orange sky bleeding into the horizon like a wound that wouldn't heal. At forty-five, he'd taken up running—mostly running from the silence in his now-empty house. Linda had left three months ago, taking her warmth and leaving behind a refrigerator full of rotting spinach and half-empty wine bottles.

Your backhand's improving, said Elena, his padel partner, younger by fifteen years and married to a man who didn't appreciate her. She touched his shoulder after a point, her fingers lingering like a question he wasn't ready to answer.

My son's coming home next week, Marcus said, deflecting as he always did. He wants me to watch his baseball game. College scouts might be there.

Elena's smile faltered. That's wonderful.

It's not wonderful. I haven't been to one of his games since he was twelve. I was always working, always running somewhere else.

You're here now.

Am I? Marcus laughed bitterly. I'm here, playing padel with a beautiful woman who deserves better than being someone's midlife crisis.

The orange deepened to purple. Elena stepped closer, her scent—jasmine and something like apology—filling the space between them. Maybe I don't want better. Maybe I want exactly this, however messy.

Marcus's phone buzzed. A text from Linda: I want the divorce papers signed by Friday. Also, you left your spinach in the crisper. It's liquid now.

He showed Elena. She laughed, and the sound was like something breaking open, like dawn after a long night.

Buy fresh spinach, she said. Come over for dinner. My husband's out of town again.

For the first time in months, Marcus didn't run. He stood still in the fading orange light and said, I'll bring wine.

The baseball game could wait. The spinach could be replaced. Some second chances only happened once.