Sunday at the Padel Court

Her hair fell in loose waves around her shoulders, darker than he remembered, or maybe he just hadn't been looking closely enough lately. They stood on opposite sides of the padel court, the green surface blurred through his exhaustion. Three years of marriage, and somewhere along the way, they'd both become zombies—moving through motions, no longer alive to each other.

She served, and he missed. Again.

"You're not even trying," she said, and something in her voice cracked.

He looked up. The sun was setting, painting everything in shades of orange and gold. That's when he noticed it—the way she wouldn't meet his eyes, the small lines around her mouth that hadn't been there when they'd met. She was hurting. He was too. They were two goldfish swimming in the same bowl, forgetting each other every three seconds, forgetting why they'd ever chosen this life together.

"I'm sorry," he said, and meant it. Really meant it, for the first time in months.

Her racket lowered. "About the game?"

"About everything."

The ball rolled to a stop between them. She walked to the net, and he met her there. Her hair smelled like coconut shampoo and the salt of dried sweat—familiar and devastating. He realized he'd been hungry for her, starving actually, while stuffing himself with distractions and work and the numbing comfort of routine.

"Play again?" she asked, her voice tentative.

"Yes," he said. "But differently this time."

They played until the orange light faded to purple, until the zombies woke up and remembered they were human, until the goldfish learned to hold a thought longer than three seconds: she still loved him. And he, her. Maybe that was enough to start.