I’m alone, on a tennis court that fills with water the moment it rains, then doesn’t dry off for hours. The waves batter the beach. The sky’s forgotten it’s supposed to be blue. I practice my serve until I’ve smashed all the balls over the net, walk over and start again.

Before I hit each ball, I imagine it has Tony’s face. He’ll be drinking on our balcony with his friends. They’re revolting, his friends.

I’ve embarked on this trip with great expectations. Now I can’t remember what I liked about Tony.

At least I’ll return with a killer serve.

***

Second week of Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers. Find all the stories here.