The Sunday Game

The padel court echoed with the sharp *thwack* of racquet against ball, each shot a punctuation mark in the sentence of our deteriorating marriage. Elena moved across the court with predatory grace, her polo shirt stained with sweat, while I fumbled through what used to be easy territory. We used to play every Sunday. Now it had been three months since we'd stood on the same side of the net.

"You're missing the easy ones," she said between points, not unkindly. That was the problem—she wasn't unkind anymore. She was just polite.

"Distracted."

"Work?"

"Something like that."

After the game, we sat on the bench outside the club, sharing the silence we used to fill with plans. Her phone buzzed—David, probably. Her friend from the marketing firm. The one who made her laugh in that particular way she hadn't laughed with me in years. A year ago, I would've been jealous. Now I just felt tired.

"I'm making that spinach salad tonight," she said, apropos of nothing. "The one your mother liked."

"Mom's been gone eight months, El."

"I know." She looked away. "Some things stay."

Some things don't.

Our cat, Buster, had died two weeks after Mom. The vet said it was natural causes. I said it was a broken heart. Elena said I was projecting. She was probably right, but that didn't make it less true.

"There's a bear," she said suddenly.

"What?"

"At work. David. He's this... presence. A bear of a man." She colored. "I mean, he's big. Imposing. But gentle. You know?"

I did know. That was exactly it.

"Are you..."

"No." She touched my arm, then pulled away. "I don't know. Maybe. Is that terrible?"

"No," I said. "It's just life."

We sat there as the sun went down, watching the padel court empty out, neither of us moving to leave, both of us waiting for the other to say what came next. Some games end with a score. Others just stop because someone decides they don't want to play anymore.