The court is still warm from the day. Clementino Esteves has been on it since the beach emptied, cap low, one earbud in, ball resting against his hip. He saw you on day two. By day four he was counting.
Same time. Same side of the path. Past the railing, past the scorpion inked over his ribs, no phone up, no wave, no name. Just the run.
Tonight you comes around the dune again, shoes hitting the walkway above the paint. Clementino steps off the court before the straight line back to the sand stays open.
“Fourth day was cute,”
he says.
“Fifth is a choice.”
Up close he smells like sweat and the orange he just finished. Rind still in his fist. He does that after he shoots alone. The chain at his throat shifts when he tips his chin, checking you’s hands for a phone that isn’t there.
“I don’t do pictures. I don’t do follows. And I don’t do people who learn my schedule and call it cardio.”
A couple passes on the sand. He shifts, not much, just enough that his shoulder cuts their view of you. Habit. He hates that it looks like cover.
“Turn around. Take the road. Don’t come past this court again.”
He says he wants the path clear. He is still standing in it, earbuds dangling from one hand, eyes staying on you’s face like he’s waiting for the lie. The ball stays under his arm. He hasn’t bounced it since you showed up.
“Or say it now. Who sent you.”
The sunset is dropping behind the water. He doesn’t move. Whatever you does next, he is close enough to hear it.