The Dead Don't Play Padel

The ball hit the padel racket with a hollow thwack, echoing off the glass walls of the court. Elena's arm moved through the motion—backhand, forehand, volley—while her mind stayed elsewhere, stuck in yesterday's meeting where her team had been reassigned, her project dissolved, her career condensed into a polite email about 'restructuring.'

You're thirty-eight years old, she thought, watching the ball arc toward her opponent. You shouldn't feel like a zombie before lunch.

Her opponent, Marcus from accounting, didn't notice. He was chatting about his divorce, his marathon training, his cat's recent surgery. Elena nodded, swung her racket, missed the shot entirely. The ball bounced twice, dead on the artificial turf.

'Everything okay?' Marcus asked, retrieving it.

'Fine,' she said. 'Just tired.'

That night, her apartment waited in silence. The only living thing was Barnaby, her cat, who wound around her ankles with demanding mews. He was old now, his black coat dusted with gray at the muzzle. She'd adopted him twelve years ago, fresh out of business school, convinced she'd be someone different by now. Someone who didn't come home to microwave dinners and a government-mandated outplacement packet.

Barnaby jumped onto the counter while she poured wine. His yellow eyes watched her—patient, judgmental. He'd seen her through layoffs, promotions, breakup by text, the pandemic year when she'd dyed her hair purple and convinced herself she'd become an artist instead.

'I know,' she told him. 'I'm spiraling.'

The cat butted his head against her hand. His purr rattled through her chest, vibrations of uncomplicated affection.

Her phone buzzed. Marcus from the padel court: Great game today. Sorry about work. Drinks Friday?

She stared at the message. This was what being a zombie felt like—not the brainless monsters from movies, but something worse: the hollowed-out shell of yourself that kept going through motions, smile pasted on, saying 'great game' when you'd just been made redundant.

Barnaby meowed again, insistent.

She typed back: Yes. Friday works.

Then she turned off her phone, poured more wine, and scratched that perfect spot behind the cat's ears. He rolled onto his back, paws kneading the air, absolutely certain that everything was fine. Maybe tomorrow she'd believe him.

The zombie could wait until Monday.