The Sunday Game
Sunday mornings, the padel court echoed with laughter she couldn't quite hear from the balcony. Elena watched them—Marcus and Sarah, their racquets moving in synchronized violence, their bodies leaning into each other's space like promises. The glass wall reflected her silhouette back at her: thirty-five, single, nursing a glass of white wine at eleven AM.
She'd found the vitamin bottles in Marcus's gym bag three days ago—biotin and something unlabelled, the prescription name crossed out with Sharpie. Not his handwriting. Sarah's handwriting, all loops and hesitation, the same way she signed expense reports at the firm.
Below, Marcus scored a point. He pulled Sarah into a hug that lasted too long, his hand resting on the small of her back. Elena had seen that gesture before—directed at her, once, when they'd first met at the office holiday party. Now it belonged to someone else.
She looked at the goldfish bowl on her coffee table. Bernard, the lone survivor of a threesome she'd bought on impulse three years ago, swam in endless circles, his orange scales catching the morning light. He'd outlived the others, outlasted her marriage to Marcus, kept swimming through tank cleanings and forgotten feedings. There was something noble about that stupidity—about keeping going when your entire world was four square feet of water.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Marcus: *Great game. Sarah's coming over for lunch. You should join.*
Elena set down her wine. She'd played her part in this farce too long—pretending not to notice the lingering touches, the excuses to work late, the way Marcus's phone always seemed to be face down when she entered the room. She'd been acting like she didn't know, and he'd been acting like he wasn't leaving. They'd both been lying to each other, performing indifference while the air between them thickened with everything unsaid.
She picked up Bernard's bowl. The water sloshed gently against the glass.
People called her a fox at work—clever, adaptable, always landing on her feet. But foxes were survivors because they knew when to run. They didn't wait for the hunter to raise the rifle. They didn't pretend the forest wasn't burning.
What she had to bear wasn't the betrayal itself. It was the sudden, aching clarity of how long she'd known. How long she'd chosen not to know.
Elena carried Bernard to the door, her keys already jingling in her pocket. Let them have their lunch. Let them have their secrets. Some games you win by forfeiting the match before you lose the match—before it destroys whatever dignity you have left.
She stepped into the hallway and locked the door behind her.