With every shot he returned he felt their marriage taking a hit. Playing tennis was his idea. Getting a second car, hers. And the recession, life's.
When swimming didn't cool her off, she started squaring off with him on the court. Today's encounter was closely contested. Not by the way of points but actual distance. They were standing as close as Ping-Pong players.
So while trying to return his deft dodge, she lobbed her racket in his face. The game, he thought, will now continue over the dining table.
As he placed an ice pack over his nose and rubbed his eyes with his free hand, he sensed her presence around him. She precariously balanced herself along the edge of the couch.
Her lips, showed the slightest hint of a smile. Her hands ran through his hair.
Marriage, he remembered, was a contact sport.
PS: Written as a tribute to the great descriptions of Lolita playing tennis in Nabokov's magnum opus.