The Ball Always Returns

The padel court echoed with the sharp thwack of rubber against glass walls, each hit a small explosion in the humid evening air. Forty-two years old and negotiating custody arrangements, Mark found himself here every Tuesday at seven, trying to remember why he'd ever stopped playing.

You're slicing your backhand, Elena said, leaning against the mesh fence. She was thirty, confident, exactly the kind of woman he should have dated a decade ago instead of marrying his college sweetheart.

My form's fine, he lied, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his shirt. The fluorescent lights cast everything in a sickly yellow glow that made his exhaustion look like jaundice.

She laughed. You haven't played in fifteen years, Mark. Your form's terrible, but your running's kept your legs under you. That's something.

Running had been his refuge since Sarah left—six miles every morning through the gray dawn of suburban Sacramento, his breath misting in the cold air, headphones drowning out the silence of an empty house. It was the only time he didn't feel like a failure.

I saw you at the shelter last week, Elena said, suddenly serious. Her racket dangled from one hand, forgotten. You were there about the cat, right?

Mark stiffened. How did you—

Volunteer shift. You were crying when you held him. She didn't mock him. What happened?

I couldn't take him, Mark said, his voice cracking. Sarah always said we'd get one when the kids were older. But then there were no kids, and then there was no Sarah, and when I finally went... He swallowed hard. The cat had the same orange patches as her childhood tabby. Like she was still haunting me from beyond the grave, except she's in Marin with a yoga instructor.

Elena stepped closer. You didn't get the cat because he reminded you of her.

I didn't get the cat because I didn't know how to live alone. Still don't.

The padel ball rolled to a stop between them, silent as a confession.

You know, Elena said, the shelter's open till nine on Thursdays. And my backhand needs work if we're going to keep playing like this.

Like what?

Like we're both running from something instead of toward it.

Mark picked up the ball. I haven't run toward anything in years.

There's a first time for everything. She smiled, and for the first time since his marriage ended, he wondered if forward motion might feel different than running away.