Sunday Morning Padel

The **cable** company had called yesterday — three-hour window for the technician, somewhere between noon and when hope died. Elena sat on the balcony edge, bare feet gripping the stucco, watching Marcus pack the **padel** racket into its weathered case.

"You coming?" Marcus asked, not really asking. Their Sunday matches had become like the **vitamin** supplements they both took — necessary maintenance, no joy, just something you did because the alternative was falling apart faster.

"Coil technician's supposed to come." She took a bite of her **orange**, the citric spray sharp against the gray morning. "Somebody needs to be here."

Marcus's jaw worked. "You used to love playing."

"I used to love you too." The words hung there, suspended like breath held too long.

He stopped moving. The **lightning** flash of hurt in his eyes was gratifying and terrible, something real finally breaking through the months of polite dinners and separate bedrooms. It was the first authentic emotion she'd seen from him since before the miscarriage, since they'd decided together to never speak of it.

"I'll cancel the technician," he said quietly.

"Don't." She stood up, wiped her sticky fingers on her robe. "Go play. I'll be here when you get back. If you still want to come back."

"Elena—"

"Go, Marcus." She pushed the orange toward him. "Take it. For potassium."

He left with the racket and the fruit. She watched him walk away, a small figure against the sprawling suburban sky, and felt something shift inside — not a lightning strike, but the slow inexorable slide of tectonic plates. The cable guy would come eventually. They'd fix the connection, or they wouldn't. Some things couldn't be repaired with a house call.