The Last Sunday

The padel court echoed with the rhythmic thwack of racquets against ball, a sound that had become the soundtrack to our dying marriage. Marcus played with that same focused intensity he brought to everything—his job, our relationship, the way he arranged his vitamin supplements in perfect rows each morning.

'You're not even trying,' he said, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.

I watched the ball bounce against the wire fence. 'I'm tired, Marcus. Maybe that's allowed.'

Our golden retriever, Buster, lay in the shade of the scoreboard, his golden fur catching the afternoon light. At twelve, he moved slower now, his joints stiffening just like the silence between us. Marcus had wanted a younger dog, something more active for our weekend trips to the court. But Buster was mine—the one steadfast thing I'd chosen for myself.

The cable guy had been at the house that morning, a young guy with tattoos climbing his neck who'd looked from me to Marcus with uncomfortable recognition. 'Bad connection,' he'd said, and I'd wondered if he meant more than the internet.

Marcus served again, the ball skimming the net. He'd been different since his promotion—more distant, more like a sphinx watching from across the dinner table, his face unreadable, his words deliberate and carefully measured. I'd stopped asking what was wrong. The answers were always riddles.

'I got the test results back,' I said, letting his return shot fly past me.

He stopped, racquet lowered. 'And?'

'They want me to take vitamin D supplements. Iron too.' I looked at him. 'The doctor said stress. That I should find ways to... relax.'

Marcus studied the racquet in his hands. 'I'm doing this for us,' he said quietly. 'The promotion, the house. Everything.'

'Are you?' I walked to the net. 'Or are you doing it for yourself?'

Buster stood up, sensing something in our voices. He limped toward us, and Marcus finally looked away from me to scratch behind the dog's ears.

'You don't understand,' Marcus said.

'Then explain it to me.' I waited. 'Like I'm not a riddle you have to solve.'

The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the court. Marcus's phone buzzed in his bag—probably work, always work—and for once, he didn't reach for it.

'Maybe,' he said, 'I don't know how anymore.'

I nodded. 'Then maybe we start there.'

Buster pressed his wet nose against my hand, and I remembered that love, like everything else worth having, was sometimes about showing up even when you'd forgotten the rules of the game.