The Last Orange Ball

The orange ball bounced against the glass wall of the padel court, each impact echoing like a countdown I hadn't agreed to. David's laughter carried across the net, effortless and infuriating, while I adjusted my hat for the third time that morning—a navy baseball cap I'd started wearing when the migraines began, when the nights became endless stretches of ceiling-staring and pretending I didn't hear him texting in the bathroom.

My iphone vibrated against the bench, its screen lighting up with a notification I pretended not to see. Sarah's name. Again. She'd been his 'work wife' for six months, a term that had made me uncomfortable until I decided to be the cool spouse who didn't mind office friendships. The cool spouse who now knew exactly what kind of friendship they really had.

'Your serve,' David called, wiping water from his forehead with the back of his hand. The humidity had turned the air into something thick and suffocating, like the space between us in bed lately. 'You okay, Em? You're playing like your heart's not in it.'

I served mechanically, the ball hitting the net and rolling to a stop between us. An orange sphere of surrender.

'I saw the messages,' I said, my voice sounding like someone else's—someone calmer, more prepared. 'All of them.'

The silence that followed was heavier than the air, heavier than the secrets I'd been carrying like stones in my stomach. David's face shifted through about five different emotions before settling on something close to relief.

'Emma,' he started, and I already hated everything about the apology I knew was coming—its insincerity, its convenience, its timing. 'It's not what you think. We haven't—'

'You meet at that café on Orange Street,' I interrupted. 'She wears that green hat you pretended was ugly when I bought one. You call her during your lunch break and tell her you're stressed about work, and she tells you you're brilliant and underappreciated. And somehow that's not cheating?'

The club's sprinkler system chose that moment to activate, sending a fine mist of water across the court like some absurd stage effect in a play about divorce. David stood there, water dripping from his hair, and I realized I wasn't angry anymore. I was just profoundly, exhaustively done.

'I want a divorce,' I said. The words felt like finally setting down something I'd been carrying for too long. 'And I want you to move out this weekend.'

The orange ball sat between us on the court, small and round and perfectly meaningless. Somewhere behind the glass walls, someone's phone buzzed. A new game was about to start on the next court over. Life kept happening, indifferent and ongoing, while my old one ended here, between service lines and empty apologies, under a fine spray of water that felt almost like forgiveness, but wasn't quite.