Serving Against the Empty Court

The **vitamin** D supplements sat on his kitchen counter, a single amber pill in each compartment of the plastic organizer—his sister's diagnosis for the hollow-eyed man she'd found three months ago. "You're wasting away," she'd said, pressing the container into his palm after the divorce papers were signed. "Take them. For the children, if not yourself." There were no children. There was only the apartment that had grown too large and the silence that had learned to speak his name at 3 AM.

The **dog** appeared on Tuesdays and Thursdays, an ancient golden retriever with milky cataracts and a patience that seemed almost accusatory. Its owner—Sarah, he learned—never stayed, just tied the leash to the bench while she ducked into the coffee shop. The dog would rest its chin on his knee, and he would stroke the coarse fur around its neck, remembering the life he and Julia had planned: the house with the yard, the rescue they'd never gotten around to adopting. Now Julia was living that life with someone else, posting photos of their new border collie on Instagram. He'd blocked her account, but sometimes he forgot and searched anyway, his **iPhone** glowing with stolen moments of a happiness that should have been his.

He'd started playing **padel** because his therapist suggested it—something physical, something social. The club was a fluorescent-lit warehouse where divorced men and corporate teams came to sweat out their regrets. He was terrible at it, always swinging too late or too early, the racket connecting with nothing but air while his partner shouted encouragement. But there was something about the enclosed court, the way the ball bounced off the glass walls, that felt honest. In the real world, he was still trying to find his footing, still half-expecting Julia to walk through the door with her key. But on the court, the rules were simple: hit the ball or don't. Miss or return. There was no gray area, no quiet accumulation of years that could vanish in a single conversation.

Last Tuesday, Sarah had forgotten her umbrella. She'd run back through the rain to find him sitting on the bench, the dog's head resting heavily on his thigh. She'd paused, water dripping from her coat, and for a moment they'd just looked at each other—the three of them bound together by the simple fact of being alone together. "He likes you," she'd said. "Buster's picky." He'd nodded, not trusting his voice. When she left, she didn't tie the leash this time. She just touched his shoulder, her fingers light through his wet shirt, and said, "Same time next week?" He watched her walk away, the dog trotting beside her, and realized he was already looking forward to it.

That night, he took two vitamins instead of one. He stood at his window and watched the city lights, his phone face-down on the counter, and for the first time in months, he didn't check to see if she'd posted anything new. Tomorrow was Thursday. The dog would be there. The court was reserved for 7 AM. He would serve the ball, and this time, he would be ready to hit it back.