Serving at Sunset

The vitamin D deficiency had been Elena's excuse for months - why she needed weekend afternoons at the padel club, why her skin glowed even in February. I'd bought it, the same way I'd bought the narrative that her running partner was just a divorced accountant named Mark who needed a pace setter.

"You're never home," I told her last Tuesday, after discovering the receipt for a romantic dinner charged on our joint credit card. She'd been supposed to be at padel practice.

"We're just friends," she said, not meeting my eyes. "Mark's going through a lot."

Now I run at dawn because sleep is impossible, each footfall a drumbeat of questions I'm too cowardly to ask. The vitamin supplements in our bathroom cabinet - hers, not mine - form a neat amber lineup. I Google the brand: specialized for athletic performance, for recovery. For people who play hard and need to bounce back.

Today, I don't run. I drive to the padel club instead.

I find them on Court 7, laughing across the net like it's the most natural thing in the world. Her hand rests on his shoulder familiarly as they discuss strategy. The same shoulder she complained was stiff from "too much computer work." There's nothing stiff about it now.

Mark sees me first. His expression doesn't shift - he's seen this before, I realize. He's the professional.

"Elena," I say, and my voice doesn't sound like mine. "We need to talk."

She flinches. "Now?"

Unless I say it now, I never will. "I know about the dinners. I know about the vitamins. I know you're not running with me anymore - you're running from me."

The sun sets behind the glass walls, casting long shadows across the court. Somewhere nearby, a ball serves sharply against the wall. The sound echoes like the final word in a conversation we should have had a year ago.

"You're right," she says softly. "I was trying to protect you."

"From what?" I ask, though I already know.

"From how long I've been gone."