The Last Match Point

The coaxial cable lay severed behind the television, a dead snake in the corner of their living room. Sarah hadn't noticed when she disconnected it—just another thing that stopped working between them.

Mark stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, watching their golden retriever, Buster, chase tennis balls across the Padel court below. The thwack of racquets echoed up from the private club's grounds, a rhythm that used to accompany their Sunday morning matches together. Now Buster chased alone, barking at balls that no one would hit back.

"You're going?" Sarah asked from the sofa, not looking up from her tablet.

"Running club meets in twenty minutes."

"Always running, Mark. That's the problem."

The words hung there, heavier than he expected. Three years of marriage, reduced to this: a severed cable, a dog playing fetch solo on a Padel court, and him perpetually running—first marathons, then from difficult conversations, now from whatever this had become.

He remembered when they'd joined the club. The Padel league had been her idea—something they could do together, she'd said, before the promotion that consumed her evenings, before the distance grew measurable in silence rather than miles.

Buster abandoned the tennis ball and trotted toward the building, his tail between his legs.

"The dog needs walking," Mark said.

"So do you." Finally, she looked up. "Just not away from here."

He paused at the door, hand on the frame. The cable still lay behind him. Maybe some connections could be spliced back together. Maybe it was worth finding out.

"After my run," he said. "We'll talk. Really talk."

She didn't respond, but she set down the tablet. Outside, Buster waited by the door, tail wagging cautiously.

Small mercies. It was a start.