The Sunday Morning Singles

The first time David saw Elena at the padel club, she was shaking her hair loose from a messy bun, laughing at something her partner had said. David stood near the glass wall, racket dangling from his hand, suddenly acutely aware of his own thinning hair and the way his shoulders slumped forward.

Forty-two, divorced, and still sleeping in the guest room of his brother's house, David had taken up padel because someone said it was what people did when they needed to start over. Mostly, he just missed hitting things.

"You going to stand there all morning or are you going to play?" Elena called out, noticing him staring. She wore a backward baseball hat, its brim frayed at the edges. There was something familiar about her posture — the way she held her racket like she'd been carrying anger for years.

They ended up paired together in mixed doubles. David played aggressively, almost desperately, while Elena moved with a calculated precision that hinted at old injuries. After they lost the second set, they sat on the bench outside, drinking warm sports drinks from plastic bottles.

"You hit like someone who's trying to punish something," she said, not unkindly.

"Maybe I am."

"Join the club. Half the people here play because their marriages fell apart and they need an excuse to leave the house before noon on Sundays." She took off her hat, running fingers through hair that was starting to show silver at the temples. "The other half are just trying to postpone going back to jobs they hate."

"Which half are you?"

"Both. Neither." She looked at him really looked at him, in a way that made his chest feel tight. "I play because I don't know who I am when I'm not someone's something anymore. You know?"

David did know. He knew exactly what she meant — that hollow space where identity used to be, the way you could spend decades becoming someone's partner, someone's parent, and wake up one morning wondering where you'd gone in the process.

"Next Sunday?" he asked, gesturing toward the courts.

"Same time. Bring your own racket this time. And maybe don't dress like you're going to a funeral."

David looked down at his black clothes, then back at her. For the first time in months, he smiled — really smiled, without forcing it.

"Deal."