Serving Into the Sun

The papaya sat between them like a small, orange sun —分割的, glistening with dew. Elena watched Marcus spear a piece with his fork, the juice staining his lips the same shade as the lie she'd been telling herself for months. They were at that resort in Tulum, the one everyone said could save a marriage. So far, it had only saved them from having to look at each other across their own breakfast table.

"You're not taking your vitamins," Marcus said, not looking up from his plate.

"I'm taking them. Just not with breakfast anymore."

"Your mother said —"

"My mother says a lot of things about what thirty-year-old women should do with their bodies." Elena pushed her chair back. The terrace overlooked the padel court where a group of twenty-somethings were playing, their laughter carrying on the wind like something that belonged to a different species. "Are we doing this? The match?"

Marcus checked his watch. An old gift, from when she still believed nice things could fix them. "Booked for ten. Don't want to lose the deposit."

The padel court smelled of rubber and desperation by the time they stepped onto it. Elena served first. The ball hit the glass wall with a sound like something breaking, which she supposed was appropriate. They played in silence — Marcus with his lethal precision, her with her desperate defense. His mother had paid for the lessons. His mother had suggested the vitamins. His mother had found the resort.

"You're holding the racquet wrong," he said during a changeover, wiping sweat from his forehead with the expensive towel.

"I'm holding it how you taught me."

"No, you're —"

"Marcus." She dropped her racquet. It hit the artificial turf with a soft thud. "I don't want to be good at padel. I don't want to take the vitamins. I don't want papaya for breakfast ever again. I want to know when you stopped looking at me like I was someone you actually wanted to be alone with."

The ball girl paused, frozen halfway to collecting their scattered balls. From the terrace, someone's phone rang. A papaya-colored butterfly landed on the net and stayed there, wings opening and closing like a question.

Marcus stared at her. For the first time in a year, he looked surprised. "I thought you liked the resort."

"I like honesty." She picked up her racquet. "Are you going to serve, or should I just walk back to the room and pack?"

He served. The ball hit the net. It dropped onto his side of the court.

"Match point," she said quietly. "Your move."