The Ball and Aftermath

I watch from the lounger as Mark's padel racquet cuts through the humid air, his movements precise and practiced. Beside him, Elena laughs at something he says, her hand grazing his arm as they switch sides of the court. The orange in my hand has gone warm, its skin dimpling under my fingers.

When I was twelve, I watched my father's prize bull mount a cow that would never conceive. The way its hooves dug into the dirt, the terrible clarity of its purpose, the shame I felt witnessing something so raw and necessary.

Elena serves. The ball arcs toward Mark, who returns it with his signature backhand—the same one he used on our wedding anniversary when I asked him what he was thinking about.

"You're quiet," he'd said then. Too young for marriage, maybe. The wrong kind of hungry.

The orange sections are bitter. I swallow anyway.

Later, when Mark sleeps, I walk to the ocean. The salt water stings my lips as I begin swimming, away from the shore, into the darkness. For a moment, I understand the bull—how some hungers can't be reasoned with, only surrendered to. I tread water, looking back at the resort lights, then turn toward the open sea.

I make my choice.