Serving at Love

The papaya sat on the kitchen counter for three days before I noticed its skin had gone translucent and soft, weeping onto the marble. Elena had bought it. She never ate fruit anymore. She just bought it and left it to rot while she spent her mornings at the club, her blonde hair swept back in that elastic band she'd stolen from me years ago.

'You're coming tonight?' she called from the bathroom, where she was arranging her hair into something casual and effortless that would take her an hour.

'The spinach wilts if I don't cook it,' I said. 'Go ahead. I'll catch up.'

The padel courts at the club were all glass and harsh lighting, transparent boxes where everyone could watch everyone else failing. Elena had taken up padel six months ago, suddenly, desperately, the way people take up jogging or affairs or religion when something inside them starts to hollow out.

I found her court three deep. She was laughing, head thrown back, hair swinging loose, her tennis dress white against the blue court. Her partner—Mark, the new oncologist from the hospital—served, and she missed, and she laughed again, touching his arm like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The papaya in my kitchen wasn't the only thing rotting.

I watched them play. The way they moved together, the way she looked at him instead of the ball. They'd played better than they should have for people who'd only just met. Their spacing was instinctive. They knew each other's rhythms.

After the match, they sat on the bench, knees touching, drinking water from matching bottles. Elena's hair stuck to her neck in the humidity. I stood at the glass wall and watched them, and I understood suddenly that there are things you can forgive and things you cannot, and the difference between them is often just a matter of timing.

'You came,' she said later, in the car. Her hand was on my thigh, casual and warm. 'Did you see us play?'

'I saw,' I said.

At home, the papaya had collapsed into itself. The smell was sickly sweet, fermented. I threw it in the trash. The spinach was still in the bag, crisp and green, waiting.

'I'll cook the spinach,' I said.

Elena's phone buzzed on the counter. She didn't look at it. She just watched me, her hair still damp from the shower, her face open and waiting, and I realized that love is not a game you win. It's not a game at all. It's just the choice to keep serving, even when you know you've already lost.