The Last Tuesday at Sunset

Mara walked past the **palm** trees lining the parking lot, their fronds drooping in the October heat like abandoned party decorations. The padel courts were empty now—David had canceled their Tuesday match three weeks ago, citing work, then his mother, then just silence. She still had his spare racquet in her trunk.

Inside the sports complex, the owner was watching television behind the counter. A baseball game was ending, players rushing the field in that familiar explosion of joy she used to watch with David on Sundays, his arm heavy around her shoulders, beer cans sweating onto coasters. Now she watched alone at bars, nursing gin and tonics while couples laughed behind her.

"You Mara?" The owner called. "Your brother's in the back."

Her brother Mike sat on the physical therapy table, his new leg propped on a foam wedge. He'd been back from Afghanistan for six months, and Mara still wasn't used to it—the mechanical precision of his gait, the way he watched doorways like they might bite.

"You look like shit," he said.

"Running on three hours of sleep." She pulled a stool closer. "Work fired half the department yesterday. I survived, but—"

"But you're the **zombie** now." Mike's mouth twitched. "The walking dead. I know the type."

She swallowed. "How's PT going?"

"Same. They want me to try the new running blade next month." He touched his knee, then his forehead, a nervous tic he'd developed since the explosion. "Mara, I've been thinking about David."

"Don't."

"You haven't been yourself since—"

"Since I found the texts?" Her voice rose. "Since his 'work trips' turned out to be weekends with her?"

Mike was quiet. Then: "He called me."

Mara's stomach dropped.

"He wants to meet. Says there's things you don't understand."

Outside, the automatic lights flickered on. She watched a moth batter itself against the fluorescent glow, drawn to something that would burn it.

"What did you say?"

"I said I'd ask. But Mara—" Mike's voice softened. "You've been running since it happened. Running through the pain, running from the grief. At some point, you have to stop."

She thought about David's spare padel racquet in her trunk. About the baseball games they'd never watch together again. About the way he'd looked at her that last night, like she was something he was trying to memorize before leaving forever.

"Tell him tomorrow," she said. "Sunset, by the old courts."

Mike nodded, but something in his eyes said he knew: she wasn't going for closure. She was going to find out if she was still alive, or if she'd been dead for months and simply too stubborn to lie down.