The Service Game

Elena served, the ball hitting the padel racket with a satisfying pop that echoed across the court. Marcus didn't move. He stood at the baseline, his graying hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, watching the ball bounce twice untouched. Again.

"Match point, Marcus." She bounced on the balls of her feet, her competitive edge sharp as ever.

He walked to the net, not to shake hands but to lean against it, defeated before the final point. "I'm cancelling the cable tomorrow."

The words hit harder than any serve. Not because of the money — they could afford it — but because Marcus had negotiated that cable package like a trophy, their first joint purchase after the wedding. Twelve years of premium channels, on-demand movies they never watched, the comfort of excess they'd built together.

"Okay." Elena gripped her racket tighter. "Why?"

"I'm moving in with Sarah."

The silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. A piece of spinach from Marcus's lunch was caught between his front teeth. She wondered if she should tell him — she always had before, a finger pointed at her own smile to signal him. The intimacy of small corrections. Not anymore.

"Does she play padel?" Elena asked, surprised by how calm she sounded. Like this was a strategic question, not her life fracturing.

"She hates sports." Marcus laughed, short and dry. "She's a vegetarian. Makes this amazing spinach salad with warm goat cheese and pine nuts. You'd hate it."

Elena served again. The ball sailed long, bouncing off the back fence. She didn't watch it land.

"Your form's off," Marcus said, still leaning against the net, that piece of spinach still wedged in his smile.

"I know." She walked to the net, extended her hand. "Good match, Marcus."

He shook it, his palm damp and familiar. "You played great, El."

"No." She pulled away. "I didn't."

She left him there on the court, the racket still in his hand, and walked toward the parking lot. Behind her, she could hear him finally calling out — about the cable service, the refund, the logistics of ending things. Always the logistics.

Elena got into her car and caught her reflection in the rearview mirror. A stray hair had come loose from her ponytail, a silver thread among the dark. She smoothed it back, started the engine, and drove away without looking back at the court where they'd played every Sunday for seven years, never realizing they were keeping score.