The Padel Court at Sunset

Marcus swallowed his daily **vitamin** cocktail—D3, omega-3, something promising better skin at forty—and stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. His **hair** was thinning at the crown, a fact Elena had stopped mentioning six months ago, around the time she started leaving her phone face-down on the table.

"You coming?" she called from the hallway, already in her tennis whites. Their **padel** league was the last thing they still did together.

The court was quiet when they arrived, just them against the setting sun. Elena moved like she'd been born with a racket in her hand—graceful, predatory. Like a **fox** in her element. Marcus couldn't take his eyes off her, couldn't remember when his wife had become someone he watched rather than someone he touched.

"You're distracted," she said after he missed another shot. She was breathing hard, sweat darkening the back of her dress. "Again."

"Work."

"It's always work." She stepped closer, into his space. "Or is it her?"

The question hung there, heavy and awful. Marcus thought about Sarah from accounting—young, enthusiastic, called him a **bull** in meetings like it was a compliment. He hadn't touched her. Hadn't needed to. The betrayal was already complete, living in the silences between him and Elena, in the way they slept on opposite edges of their king-sized bed.

"There's no one else," he lied.

Elena studied him for a long moment. She'd always been able to read him, even when he couldn't read himself. She set down her racket and walked toward the clubhouse without looking back.

"Where are you going?"

"Home." She turned at the gate. "But you should stay. Practice your serve."

Marcus stood alone on the court as the last light died, still clutching his racket, finally understanding that some games you lose the moment you start playing.