The Golden Afternoon

The padel court echoed with the sharp crack of racquet against ball, each strike punctuation in a conversation we'd stopped having months ago. Martin's back was to me, his movements fluid and confident, the way they used to be when we still touched like we meant it.

I watched his serve arc toward me, thinking about the vitamin supplements on his nightstand, the careful rows of orange and white bottles—his attempt to outrun mortality, to shore up the crumbling architecture of our marriage with optimism and gel capsules. Meanwhile, I couldn't even remember to feed the goldfish.

The poor thing floated sideways in its bowl, a burst of orange against the glass, its mouth opening and closing in silent accusations. Another death postponed. Another metaphor for us.

'Your serve,' Martin called out, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His eyes avoided mine.

Behind him, our cat Luna appeared at the fence, sleek and indifferent, having escaped again. She regarded us with yellow eyes that seemed to ask why we kept playing this game—both the padel and the marriage—when everyone involved had already lost interest.

'I've been seeing someone,' I said, the words surprisingly light, like weights lifted suddenly.

Martin's racquet clattered to the court. The ball rolled away, forgotten, toward the fence where Luna watched, already bored with a drama she'd predicted seasons ago. The goldfish continued its silent swim, and somewhere, a vitamin bottle sat unopened, waiting for a tomorrow that had already ceased to exist.