The Revival Game

Emma watched Richard chew his spinach salad at the kitchen counter, his jaw moving mechanically. They hadn't made love in three months, not since he'd stopped seeing her as a woman and started seeing her as another obligation to manage. They were both zombies now—moving through the marriage they'd built with the same automatic motions they used at jobs they'd stopped caring about years ago.

"Padel tonight," he said, not asking. "6:30."

Their weekly game, scheduled with the precision of a board meeting. What Richard called "keeping the spark alive" felt to Emma like performing CPR on something that had already flatlined.

She almost told him about the spinach clinging to his front teeth, that emerald evidence of how little they really saw each other anymore. But she didn't. She never did.

The court was empty when they arrived, artificial lights humming like the fluorescent bars of their respective office buildings. Richard hit the ball with mechanical precision—backhand, forehand, never taking risks. Emma played the way she did everything lately: going through the motions, half-asleep, waiting for permission to wake up.

Then Richard missed. The ball sailed wide, hit the fence with a hollow clang. He stood there staring at it, racquet lowered.

"I can't do this anymore," he said, and Emma braced herself. "I can't pretend we're not dead."

"You have spinach in your teeth," she said instead of all the things she'd rehearsed saying. "Since dinner."

Richard laughed—really laughed. "And you didn't tell me?"

"I didn't want to be the person who fixes you anymore."

He walked to the net. "I don't want to be a zombie, Em. I don't want us to be these people who sleep in the same bed and dream alone."

"Then don't be."

"How?"

She thought about how easy it would be to walk away, to finally schedule the divorce they'd both been circling for months. What she said was: "Start by letting me tell you when you have something in your teeth. Then maybe we can work up to the harder stuff."

He came to her side of the net, took her hand. His palm was warm, alive.

"Again tomorrow," he said. "No scheduled time. Just when we both feel like it."

"And the spinach?"

"Tell me immediately." He kissed her carefully, avoiding the spot where green still clung to his teeth—like they were both learning again how to be people who didn't have to hide from each other.

The revival wasn't complete. But as they walked to the parking lot, Emma felt something stir in her chest. Something that might have been hope, or simply the first breath after waking up from a very long sleep.