The Padel Court at Sunset

The ball struck the glass wall with a hollow thud, the sound echoing across the resort. Elena wiped her **palm** against her skirt, leaving a dark streak of synthetic sweat on the white fabric. She hadn't wanted to come on this corporate retreat—Spain in October, her boss's idea of team building—but here she was, third match of **padel** with Markus from accounting, who apparently hadn't gotten the memo that this was supposed to be recreational.

"You're holding the racket too tight," he called from the opposite side, jogging toward the net with that easy confidence men like him always seemed to possess. "Like you're afraid to let go."

Elena said nothing. She thought about the fiber-optic **cable** she'd seen being installed along the beach yesterday—how it snaked through the sand like a black vein, connecting this manufactured paradise to the world she'd tried to leave behind, however temporarily. Three voicemails from David. Two unread emails. She'd turned her phone off after breakfast.

"Your serve," Markus said now, bouncing the ball between his knees.

She hit it into the net.

They swam later, most of them—the corporate team dissolved into a collective mass in the hotel pool, laughing and splashing, drinks balanced on the tiled edge. Elena stayed dry, watching from a lounge chair as Markus did laps with efficient strokes, cutting through the water while **swimming**laps that measured something she couldn't name. It wasn't restlessness exactly. It was more like the feeling of standing on a precipice, knowing you could step forward or back, and either way, something would break.

Her phone buzzed in her bag—once, twice, a third time. She didn't look.

"You coming in?" Markus asked later, toweling his hair, water droplets scattering like diamonds against the setting sun. He was handsome in the way that made women forgive him for things they shouldn't. Elena knew this about herself: she was always forgiving.

She opened her hand, studied the lines etched into her **palm**. Life line, love line, heart line—all the superstitions she didn't believe in except when she did.

"No," she said. "I think I'll just sit here a while longer."

Behind her, the **cable** box on the hotel roof blinked its steady red light, transmitting signals across continents. David would leave another message. She would or wouldn't call back. The sun would rise tomorrow. For now, she watched Markus walk away toward the bar, and for the first time in months, she didn't follow anything but her own stillness.