The Cat at Court Seven

The padel ball hit the glass wall with a sound like breaking promises. Elena missed it again, her racquet swinging through empty air as Martin's return shot zipped past her ear.

'You're not even trying,' he said, retrieving the ball from the corner. His voice was flat — the kind of flat that comes after three years of slow erosion.

Elena leaned against the wire fence, her chest heaving. 'I'm tired, Martin. That's all.'

A cat emerged from the shadows beneath court seven — a calico with one ear torn from some long-ago fight. It sat on its haunches and watched them with what looked suspiciously like judgment. Elena had seen this cat before, always at the worst moments: the night she'd told him about the miscarriage, the morning she'd found the texts from his coworker, the evening she'd packed her things and then unpacked them because she was too tired to leave.

'There's that cat again,' she said.

Martin didn't turn. 'It's just a cat, Elena. Not an omen. Not a sign. Just a cat.'

But she remembered the goldfish they'd bought their first month together — a fairground prize she'd won at a company picnic. They'd named it Lucky, which was objectively the wrong name for a creature whose entire existence was confined to a small glass bowl on their kitchen counter. Lucky had lasted three years before floating to the surface one Tuesday morning while Elena made coffee.

She'd cried harder than she expected. Martin had held her and said, 'It's just a fish,' and she'd looked at him and thought: you don't understand anything about endings.

'Serve,' Martin said now, bouncing the ball. His shirt was stained through at the armpits. At forty-two, he still thought he could recapture his twenties through sports and weekend cycling and, occasionally, other women.

The calico cat began to clean its paw with slow, deliberate movements. Elena felt suddenly, overwhelmingly tired of this court, this game, this version of herself that kept showing up week after week hoping things would be different.

She set her racquet on the ground.

'What are you doing?' Martin asked.

'Leaving.'

'We have twenty minutes left on the booking. I paid for—'

'Keep the money, Martin. Keep the booking.' She walked to the gate, unlatched it. 'Keep the cat, too, if you can catch it.'

'Elena, for god's sake. You're being dramatic.'

She paused at the edge of the court. The cat looked at her, then at Martin, then back at her. Its golden eyes held something ancient and knowing.

'No,' she said quietly. 'I'm finally being exactly what I am.'

She walked away without looking back. Behind her, she heard Martin call her name once, then the rhythmic thwack of the padel ball against the wall as he practiced his serve alone. The cat stayed at court seven, watching him go through the motions, waiting for whatever ending came next.