The Last Set

The orange slice she'd packed that morning sat sweating on the bench, its edges already browning in the humidity. Marcus checked his iPhone for the third time in as many minutes, the screen lighting up with nothing—no new messages, no missed calls. Just the time glowing back at him: 7:42 PM.

"You going to serve or what?" Elena called from across the padel court, her racquet tapping impatiently against the artificial turf. The glass walls were already fogging up with the evening condensation, turning their little court into something like a fishbowl, or a cage.

He palmed the ball, feeling the dampness in his hand. His palms had been sweating all through dinner, all through the drive here, and now she was watching him with those eyes—that flat, knowing look she'd developed since the promotion, since the late nights at the office started meaning something else entirely.

The cable of her earbuds snaked across her bag like a black snake, a reminder of how she'd checked out months ago. Music between them even when they were together. He'd found the receipts in her coat pocket two weeks ago. Dinner for two at that place downtown, the one with the tasting menu and the three-month waitlist. A Tuesday night. She'd told him she was working late.

"Marcus?" Her voice had changed—softer now, almost pitying. She knew he knew.

He tossed the ball up and missed the serve entirely. It sailed past him, bouncing once against the back glass, a hollow, rhythmic sound that echoed in the sudden quiet between them.

"I'm done," he said, and she nodded, like she'd been waiting for him to say it. The orange sat forgotten on the bench as he walked toward the exit, the glass door sliding open with a soft hiss, releasing him into the cool evening air.