The Last Match Point

The padel court smelled of sweat and desperation. Marcus slammed the ball against the glass wall, the *thwack* echoing like a gunshot. His partner—some twenty-something hotel guest he'd met that morning—flinched.

"You're bearing down too hard," the kid said.

Marcus didn't answer. His knuckles were white on the racket handle. In the courtyard beyond, Elena floated in the *swimming* *pool*, her pale skin shimmering through the turquoise water. She'd been out there for two hours, motionless, while he tried to *bear* the weight of what he'd confessed last night.

The *pool* attendant had asked if she was okay. Marcus had said yes. He always said yes.

"Game point," the kid shouted.

Marcus missed. The ball sailed wide, bouncing into the garden where Elena lay like some abandoned offering. He'd told her about the affair—some meaningless thing with a colleague, six months of stolen glances and hotel rooms. He'd expected screaming. Instead, she'd gone silent.

The kid checked his watch. "I have a dinner reservation."

"Go," Marcus said.

He walked to the pool's edge. Elena opened her eyes, reflecting him like a mirror. "I'm not ready to forgive you," she said, water dripping from her lips. "I don't know if I ever will be."

"I know."

"But I'm not leaving either." She treaded water, her movements slow and deliberate. "This is what we *bear* now. The weight of it. Together or apart."

Marcus sat on the concrete, letting his feet dangle in the cold water. The padel court stood empty behind him, the score forgotten. Some games, he realized, didn't end with points. They just kept going, match after match, until you learned to play with the hurt instead of against it.

"Race you to the other side," she said.

He dove in.