The Padel Court at Sunset

The ball hit the padel racket with a satisfying thwack, sailing over the net where Elena—a woman Marcus had known for three years but never really *known*—leaned against the wire fence, watching.

"You're angry today," she said, not quite a question.

Marcus wiped his palm against his shorts, sweat slick. "Rachel moved out last Tuesday."

The silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of traffic and the persistent mewling of the orange cat that had taken to living behind the club's dumpster. Marcus had started feeding it. He told himself it wasn't because he was lonely, that he wasn't becoming the kind of man who poured his heart out to strays.

"That explains the spinach," Elena said finally.

"What spinach?"

"In your teeth. From dinner? You've had it since we started playing."

He laughed, a short harsh sound. "Rachel left me. I can't remember if I ate dinner."

Elena set down her water bottle and walked onto the court. She'd always been his friend in that peripheral way—you grab drinks after work, you complain about the same boss, you never quite cross the line into something else.

"Your wife leaving doesn't mean you stop eating," she said. "Or living. Or playing terrible padel."

Marcus's palm stung where he'd gripped the racket handle too tightly. "I'm not sure I know how to do any of those things without her. That's the problem."

The cat appeared at the fence, meowing loudly.

"Feed him later," Elena said, stepping closer. "Right now, hit the ball back to me."

She didn't say it would get better. She didn't say she understood. She just stood there, racket raised, waiting for him to serve.

Marcus wiped his palm again, stepped to the line, and threw the ball into the air.

"Spinach stains," Elena added, "are easier to get out than you think. If you actually try."

The ball hit the court. Marcus swung. For the first time in a week, something felt like it might be okay again.