The Art of Bearing Weight

Marcus sat on the bench at the padel club, watching his wife Anna dominate the court. She moved with predatory grace, her skirt catching the afternoon light, her laugh ringing out every time she scored against the stranger she'd partnered with. The cable technician was supposed to come between noon and two. It was now 3:47. Another lie, or just another fuck-up in a marriage full of them.

He'd checked her phone three weeks ago—the cable receipts from hotels in Palo Alto, ones he'd never stayed at. When he'd confronted her, she'd called him paranoid, said he was imagining things, said he needed to get out more. Get out more. The irony tasted like bile in his throat.

A bull of a man—massive shoulders, neck like a tree trunk—sat beside him, cracking open a Gatorade. "Your wife's got a hell of a swing."

"Yeah. She's something."

"You play?"

"Used to. Before the knees went. Before everything went."

Marcus thought about the weight he'd been carrying. The bear that lived in his chest, claws digging into his heart every time she came home late with vague explanations about team dinners, emergency meetings, corporate emergencies that somehow never happened when he checked her calendar. He'd borne it for three years, ever since the promotion, ever since she started flying to San Francisco twice a month.

Anna wiped sweat from her forehead and waved at him. He waved back, the automatic gesture of a man practicing emotional contortionism.

"She asked if I wanted to get a drink after," the stranger beside him said. "Said her husband wouldn't mind."

Marcus turned to look at him. The man's eyes were steady, unapologetic. Like this was normal. Like this was something people did.

"She ask you that while she was winning or losing?" Marcus heard himself ask.

"Both."

"Right then." Marcus stood up, his knees popping. "I guess she's done with this match too."

He walked toward the court not knowing if he was going to scream or cry or simply bear it one more day. The bull on the bench whistled appreciation at Anna's backhand, and Marcus realized with devastating clarity: he wasn't the only one who'd been watching her play.