Three Walls

The iphone lit up at 2:14 AM. Not him. Just a software update notification.

Elena tossed it onto the nightstand and stared at the ceiling. The dog—Buster, though David had always called him 'The Sergeant'—sighed from his bed in the corner. He'd been sleeping there since David moved out three months ago. Loyal to the furniture, not the people.

She'd taken up padel recently. The enclosed court felt appropriate somehow: you could hit the ball against walls three times, but eventually you had to send it back over the net. Her friend Sarah had suggested it. 'Great for anger,' she'd said. 'And you'll meet people.'

Elena had met people. Mostly men who talked too much about their crypto portfolios and women who'd just turned forty and were suddenly training for their first marathon.

Thursday evenings were different. Thursdays were when the older group showed up—retired teachers, a guy who owned a hardware store, a woman who'd been a professional tennis player in the eighties. They played without keeping score. They played like the game itself mattered more than who won.

"You've got a nasty backhand," the hardware store guy told her last week. He had kind eyes and a name she kept forgetting. Frank? Gary? It started with G.

"My ex taught me," she'd said, surprising herself. She never talked about David at the court. The court was for the ball, the walls, the sound of rubber against glass. Not for the ghost who still haunted her notifications.

Her father had loved baseball. That's what she remembered on the drive to the club: summer evenings, the smell of cut grass and beer, him explaining the logic of the sacrifice bunt while she swung her legs under the bleachers. He'd taught her that sometimes you have to take one for the team. Sometimes you get on base and sometimes you get tagged out, but either way, you make space for the next person.

She hadn't understood it then. She understood it now.

The iphone lit up again. 2:17 AM. This time it was Sarah: 'You coming tomorrow?'

Elena typed 'Yes' before she could talk herself out of it, then added: 'Bring wine after.'

Buster lifted his head at the movement, tail thumping once against the floorboards. She patted the empty side of the bed where David used to sleep. The dog jumped up, curling into the space like he'd been waiting for permission all along.

Outside, the first real snow of winter was falling. In the morning, she'd drive to the club and hit balls against three walls and a partner she was learning to trust. But tonight, she let herself pretend that the phone might still light up with his name, that the dog wasn't just a placeholder, that sacrifice bunts ever really worked out the way you planned.

By morning, she'd be ready to play. Tonight, she let herself miss him anyway.