The Spinach Between Us

The padel court echoed with the rhythm of our marriage — controlled, precise, never quite landing where intended. David's serve hit the wire fence for the third time that morning.

"Your hair's getting longer," he said between points, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. "I like it."

I touched the loose strands that fell past my shoulders, the same length it had been for months. "I haven't cut it since your mother's funeral."

"Oh." He picked up his racket. "Right."

The ball sat between us like the things we didn't say.

We'd met on this court fifteen years ago. I'd been distracted by a piece of spinach stuck between his teeth — organic, locally grown, the kind of detail that had charmed me then. Now I found myself noticing how his hairline had retreated, how his stomach pressed against his shirt when he reached for returns. How we'd become people who played padel on Saturday mornings and ate dinner in separate rooms.

"Are you still seeing her?" I asked. The question hung there, heavier than the humidity.

David's racket paused mid-swing. "What?"

"The woman from your office. The one with" — I gestured vaguely — "the hair."

He laughed, but the sound cracked. "You think—" He ran a hand through his thinning hair. "You think I'm cheating?"

"I think you come home smelling like expensive shampoo. I think you delete your text messages. I think we haven't had sex in six months and you play padel with me every Saturday like everything's fine."

He served then — wild, angry, into the net.

"She cuts my hair," he said quietly. "That's all."

The silence stretched between us, longer than any point we'd played.

"I made spinach lasagna last night," I said. "It sat on the counter until midnight."

David walked to the net. "I wasn't with her. I was sitting in my car, trying to figure out how to tell you I got demoted. That I'm scared you'll leave if I can't give you the life you deserve."

His eyes filled with tears. "I'm forty-five years old and I'm losing my hair and my career and I thought... I thought if you found out, you'd finally see me clearly. And leave."

I remembered the spinach stuck in his teeth on our first date. How I'd reached over and pulled it out, how he'd turned red with embarrassment but kept smiling anyway. How we'd played this same game of hiding and revealing for fifteen years.

"I don't care about your career," I said, walking to the net. "I care about the spinach lasagna I made for you."

He reached for my hand across the net. His palm was sweaty, his grip uncertain.

"I hate spinach," he admitted. "I never told you that."

I laughed. "I know."