The Last Match

I hadn't seen Marcus in six months, not since the cable company fired him and his wife left in the same weekend. He texted me at 11 PM on a Tuesday: 'Padel tomorrow? Old court by the river.'

The next morning, I found him sitting on a bench, staring at his racquet like it was a foreign object. He'd lost weight—too much, I thought. His skin had that grayish cast of someone living on takeout and whiskey.

'You look like hell,' I said, sitting beside him.

'Spinach,' he muttered. 'Elena left me a bag of spinach in the fridge. It turned to liquid before I remembered to eat it. That's been my life lately, you know? Just... rotting by degrees.'

I didn't know what to say. Marcus and I had been friends since college, through three layoffs, two divorces between us, and countless Sunday mornings comparing hangovers. But this felt different. This felt like something that might not bounce back.

'Your serve,' I said, handing him a ball.

We played. God, we played badly. His returns were sloppy; I kept hitting the net. The water from the nearby river carried the sound of our grunts and the rhythmic thwack of the ball against the glass walls. Between games, we sat on the concrete, sweating in the humidity, watching a stray dog drink from a puddle.

'She's dating someone,' Marcus said suddenly, staring at his hands. 'Elena. Saw them at Whole Foods. He was buying organic spinach, like that's some kind of moral achievement.' He laughed, bitter and short. 'I'm forty-two years old, and I'm jealous of someone's vegetable choices.'

I put a hand on his shoulder. 'Marcus. You'll get through this.'

'Will I?' He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw something truly broken in his eyes. 'Maybe some cables just can't be reconnected. Maybe the connection's gone for good.'

We didn't finish the match. We walked to the riverbank instead, watching the water flow toward the ocean, carrying everything away.