The Glass Court

The padel ball smacked against the glass wall, a rhythmic punctuation to the silence between Marco and Elena. Three months ago, this court had been where they first kissed, breathless and laughing against the mesh fencing. Now, Elena played with mechanical precision, her ponytail swinging like a metronome counting down the final beats of their marriage.

Afterward, Marco sat on the bench peeling an orange, his fingers stained with citrus. The scent hung between them—bright, sharp, unfairly nostalgic. It reminded Elena of their honeymoon in Seville, of how they'd eaten oranges on a balcony while making grand plans about the life they'd build. Some life. She was running a department that didn't respect her, and he was still "figuring things out" at thirty-eight, which mostly meant playing padel and avoiding hard conversations.

"My mother called," Marco said, not meeting her eyes. "She asked about the IVF."

Elena felt something sharp rise in her throat. "What did you say?"

"I said we're taking a break." He tossed an orange segment into his mouth. "She said that's probably for the best. Some people aren't meant to be parents."

The words landed like debris. Elena stood up, her legs carrying her toward the parking lot before she'd decided to move. Running—that's what she did now. Not the satisfying, ground-eating sprint of her twenties, but this frantic motion in place, like the goldfish in the tank on their nightstand. Marcus had bought it years ago, saying they needed something alive in the apartment. The fish swam its endless circles,forgetting it had seen the same plastic castle a thousand times before.

She reached her car and pressed her forehead against the cool glass. Somewhere behind her, Marco was probably still eating that fucking orange, still believing that if he just kept swimming, he'd eventually reach somewhere new.

Elena started the engine. For once, she wouldn't be running back.