The Last Match at Sunset

Elena wiped her palm against her skirt, leaving a dark streak of clay dust on the linen. The padel court shimmered in the late afternoon heat, the artificial turf blindingly green against the encroaching twilight.

"You're not even trying," Marco said, bouncing the ball against his racket.

"I have a meeting at seven."

"It's our anniversary, El. The meeting can wait."

She didn't remind him that he'd forgotten last year. She didn't say that his priorities had shifted so gradually she hadn't noticed until everything that mattered was gone—like the spinach in her teeth during their wedding photos, a small imperfection she'd laughed about then but now saw as an omen.

The court was surrounded by palm trees, their fronds rustling in the warm breeze. This had been their spot since they started playing padel together five years ago. Every Sunday at four, unless it rained. Unless one of them was traveling. Unless.

"Serve," she said.

Marco hit the ball hard. It slammed into the backglass, rebounding at an impossible angle. Elena lunged, racket extended, and missed. The ball bounced twice, mocking her.

"Your form's off," he called from across the net. "You're not following through."

Everything was technical with him now. Form, technique, strategy. He couldn't see that she'd stopped trying to win months ago.

"My mother's asking about the divorce papers," she said.

The ball he'd been holding dropped. "She doesn't know about that."

"She will. I'm not signing them, Marco. But she needs to know."

He walked to the net, resting his palms on the metal. "You're still angry about the dinner."

"I'm angry that you don't know why I'm angry." She picked up her water bottle, condensation slick against her fingers. "I'm angry that you can recite every padel rule from memory but can't remember that I haven't eaten spinach since I was pregnant, and you ordered it for me twice this week."

Marco stared at her. "I thought you were just being picky."

"That's exactly what I mean."

The sun dipped below the palm trees, casting long shadows across the court. They'd played their final match without either of them realizing it.

"Are we done?" he asked.

"For tonight." She walked to the bench, grabbing her towel. "Same time next week?"

"If you want."

She did want. That was the problem.