Serving Out

The neon lights of the padel court blurred through the bottom of my wine glass, orange and green smeared like a bruised sunset. Forty-two years old and I was still playing these games—corporate networking disguised as athletics, watching my competitors sweat in expensive athletic wear while discussing third-quarter projections.

"Your backhand's improved, David," called Elena, the new VP from Marketing, who played padel with the aggression of someone who'd never lost a negotiation.

"Just trying to keep up," I said, though what I meant was: I'm tired of performing for people who wouldn't recognize sincerity if it bit them.

After the match, we gathered at the clubhouse. Someone had ordered a fruit platter—exotic stuff to show sophistication. Papaya, sliced into perfect orange wedges, glistening under the recessed lighting. I picked one up and the scent hit me like memory: my honeymoon in Costa Rica, seven years ago, when Sarah and I had stayed in that eco-lodge without wifi, when we'd eaten papaya every morning from hand-carved bowls, when we still talked about things that mattered.

"Good papaya," I said to no one in particular.

"Is it?" Elena looked at me like I'd commented on the quality of oxygen.

I took another bite. Sweet, musky, unfamiliar. "My wife loves it. We haven't had it since..." Since the separation agreement, I almost said. Since the mediation, since the dog's death, since everything that used to be real got replaced by this performative version of adulthood.

Speaking of dogs—Elena's golden retriever, Barnaby, had somehow wandered into the clubhouse. He was nosing at someone's tennis bag, tail wagging with an enthusiasm that no one in this room had felt in years. I knelt down and scratched behind his ears, his warm weight pressing against my leg like a promise that some things were still simple.

"He likes you," said a woman I'd never met—someone's date, clearly不属于 this world of aggressive networking and fruit arranged to demonstrate sophistication.

"Dogs are good judges of character," I said. "They don't care about your backhand or your quarterly projections."

She smiled, and for the first time all night, something felt real.

"I'm Maya," she said.

"David." I stood up, leaving the papaya on the table. "Want to get out of here? There's a food truck down the street. They serve actual food."