The Empty Court

The padel ball thudded against the glass wall, a hollow echo in the empty court. Marcos adjusted his grip on the racket, sweat stinging his eyes. Three years ago, Elena would have been across the net, laughing as she missed an easy shot. Now the court was just another place where her absence lived.

"Your backhand's getting worse, Marcos," he muttered to himself.

He showered in the clubhouse, avoiding the mirror. At 47, his body was becoming a stranger—aches in places he'd never noticed, a thickening middle that no amount of spinach salads could fix. Not that it mattered anymore. No one was watching.

Back at the apartment, Bento greeted him with a judgmentful meow. The cat had been Elena's idea, a compromise when they'd decided against children. Now Bento was his only roommate, his fur accumulating on Marcos's sweaters like a reminder of everything he hadn't swept away.

Marcos microwaved dinner—spinach, again—and stood at the window. Below, the city moved without him. Couples walked hand in hand. A father tossed a baseball to his son, the child's face lighting up as he connected with the ball. Marcos felt the old ache rise in his chest, sharp and familiar.

He remembered his own father's baseball glove, worn leather that smelled of tobacco and disappointment. "You throw like a girl," his father had said, and Marcos had never picked up a baseball again. Some things, you learn to live without.

Bento rubbed against his leg, purring. Marcos knelt, burying his face in soft fur. The cat didn't care about his backhand or his spinach dinners or the father who'd left when Marcos was twelve. Bento just wanted dinner, and maybe that was enough.

"Same time tomorrow," Marcos whispered to the empty room. "Same time tomorrow."