The text came in at 7:15 on a Thursday night. Hey. Please do me a favor and play tomorrow. No charge. I hate 5 players. Messes up the drills. Pleeeeeeze.
I’d told him a few weeks earlier that I was cutting back. Tennis had been my thing for years. I liked the people. I liked him. I’d driven him to a cataract surgery once, sat in the waiting room like it was nothing. We had a rhythm on the court, the kind that builds up over enough Saturdays that you stop thinking about it.
The divorce didn’t leave room for it. French lessons went first. I’m still doing Duolingo, which keeps something alive even if it’s not the same as sitting across from a real person working through conversation. Guitar lessons went too, mine, not his. His stayed. That wasn’t a hard call.
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