The Art of Floating

The padel court glowed under the sodium lights, Rafael's shirt already translucent with sweat. Elena watched from the bench, her phone vibrating with messages she wouldn't read — her sister's wedding was in three hours, and she was still debating whether to show.

"You're up," Rafael called, wiping his forehead with the hem of his shirt. The ball skittered across the glass wall.

Elena stepped onto the court, her movements automatic. They'd been playing padel every Thursday for two years, ever since Carlos left. The sport had become their shared liturgy, a way to hit something without hurting anyone.

"Your sister's cat," Rafael said suddenly, between serves. "What's its name?"

"Luna." Elena missed the return. The ball sailed into the darkness beyond the court. "Why?"

"Just making conversation. You always tense up before family things."

The truth was, her sister was marrying a man Elena had briefly dated, back when baseball metaphors seemed like a reasonable way to describe relationships. Two strikes, you're out. Foul balls. Complete games. She'd been twenty-four and prone to grand gestures, like sending him tickets to a Dodgers game instead of having the conversation about sleeping with other people.

Now she was thirty-five, standing on a padel court at midnight, while her sister married someone else's almost-husband.

Afterward, they sat on the hood of Elena's car, sharing a bottle of warm white wine. Rafael's thumb kept circling the mouth of his glass.

"My ex-wife played baseball in college," he said quietly. "Second base. I never understood how she could stand there while people hit balls in her direction."

Elena looked at him — really looked at him, for the first time in months. The cat she'd inherited after Carlos moved out scratched at the back door of her apartment, waiting. The water from the nearby reservoir glimmered through the trees, dark and endless.

"Sometimes you just have to trust your reflexes," she said.

Rafael turned to her, his face half-shadowed. "Or sometimes you let the ball hit you, because the bruise reminds you you're still playing."

The wine tasted like metal and memory. Elena set her glass down and took his hand, and somewhere in the distance, the cat curled into itself, and the water kept moving, and baseball games continued without them, and for once, she didn't think about what happened next.