Sunday Padel

Marcus hit the orange ball against the padel court wall, the thwack echoing through the empty club. Forty-two years old and he still moved like the zombies he'd become—corporate dead men walking, shuffling through quarterly reports and Zoom calls, their souls eroded by spreadsheets and compromise.

You're doing it again, he told himself. The existential spiraling. The wallowing.

He checked his phone. Elena was fifteen minutes late. She was always late now, ever since she'd started seeing that consultant from London. The one with the perfect teeth and the life coach.

The ball bounced back, and he returned it automatically. Muscle memory. Like everything else these days.

His phone buzzed. A text from Elena: *Can't make it. So sorry. Maybe next week?*

Marcus stared at the message, feeling something crack inside. They'd been friends for twenty years, since university, since the days when they'd stayed up until dawn discussing art and politics and what they'd do with their lives. Now she was canceling their Sunday game for the third week in a row. For him.

He sat on the bench, buried his face in his hands. His hair was thinning, his marriage was sexless, his career had plateaued three years ago. And now this—this one hour of life, this one connection to something real, was being taken away. Not by death or disaster, but by the slow erosion of neglect.

The orange ball rolled to a stop near his feet. Vibrant. Alive.

Marcus stood up. He picked up his racquet. He'd play alone. He'd hit the ball until his arms burned, until the sweat ran down his face, until he felt something—anything—real.

He hit the ball hard. It sailed over the net.

Somewhere in the distance, he could hear other games being played. Laughter. The sound of people still capable of joy.

Marcus hit the ball again. And again. Each hit a small rebellion against the zombie life he'd been living. Each hit a promise to himself:

Not yet. Not completely.

There was still time. There had to be.

The orange ball arced through the air, brilliant against the gray sky. A small, stubborn flare of color in a world that kept trying to turn everything gray.