The Dead Don't Play Padel

Maria stood at the edge of the infinity pool, nursing a gin and tonic that had gone watery twenty minutes ago. Below her, the lights of Marbella flickered against the dark Mediterranean like fallen stars. She should have been happy. This was supposed to be their second honeymoon, a fresh start after David promised he'd stop working weekends.

Instead, she felt like a zombie moving through someone else's life.

David's laugh drifted up from the padel court below — that same charming laugh that had won her over fifteen years ago, now wielded like a weapon against everyone except her. He was playing mixed doubles with Elena, the resort's twenty-something padel instructor whose smile was a little too bright, whose hand lingered a little too long on David's back after each point.

Maria had watched them from the balcony for three nights now. Each night, David came to bed smelling of expensive cologne and someone else's adrenaline, rolling away from her touch with some variation of I'm exhausted, the match ran long, you understand.

She didn't understand anymore. That was the problem.

A wet nose pressed against her calf. She looked down. One of the resort's golden retrievers had wandered up from the beach, its coat matted with sand and seaweed. It gazed up at her with soulful eyes, somehow sensing the hollow space where her heart used to be.

"You too, huh?" she whispered, sinking to her knees and burying her fingers in the dog's damp fur. The animal leaned into her touch, starved for affection she barely had left to give.

Below, David and Elena collapsed onto a bench, heads bent close together in conspiracy. Elena whispered something in his ear. David threw his head back and laughed — really laughed, the kind she hadn't drawn out of him in years.

The dog whined, pressing its wet snout into her palm.

Maria stood slowly, her joints stiff with resolve. She knew what she was going to do. Not tonight — she'd see this expensive farce through to its bitter end — but the moment they landed back in London, she'd call the solicitor. She'd rather sleep alone than share a bed with a ghost.

She scratched the dog behind the ears one last time, then walked away from the pool without looking back at the court. Some games, she realized, you play until you lose. Others, you simply walk off the court before the damage becomes permanent.