The Cat at Court Three

She pretended to read her book, watching him through the chain-link fence. Three weeks of this—sitting on the same bench, same time, while he played padel with the woman who laughed too loudly at his serve. Elena's hand tightened around her phone. Another blurry photo to add to the folder titled 'Proof.'

The gray cat appeared like clockwork, winding through the spectators' legs, tail flicking with judgment. It belonged to no one and everyone at the club. Today it settled beside her, yellow eyes fixed on the court where her husband Marcos smashed a winner down the line. His playing partner, Sofia, touched his arm in celebration. The contact lingered.

Elena's stomach twisted. She'd become someone she never thought she'd be: a spy in her own marriage, tracking movements like a case file. The irony bitter—she'd criticized her jealous sister for doing the same thing.

After the match, Marcos headed straight for the pool. Swimming had always been his ritual—twenty laps to wash away the day. Elena watched him dive in, slicing through the water with clean, efficient strokes. Sofia joined him, and they tread water at the deep end, heads close together in conversation.

The cat meowed, demanding attention with a persistent rub against her ankle.

"You too?" she whispered. "What does it mean when they stop coming home?"

The cat purred, indifferent to human heartbreak. Marcos climbed out of the pool, water streaming off him like something he was shedding. Sofia followed. They didn't look at each other, but the distance between them had shortened to nothing.

Elena stood, gathering her things. She knew what she had to do. Confrontation? Divorce? Or maybe she'd keep sitting here tomorrow, and tomorrow, until the certainty of knowing hurt less than the mystery of not knowing. The cat watched her go, then turned back to court three, where the next match was already beginning.