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I’m all right now.”
    “Does your leg still hurt?”
    “No, it was just a cramp—probably from driving.”
    “You sure you’re all right?”
    “Where were we?”
    We continued our foreplay. Then Paula tried to climb on top, but I pushed her aside again.
    “Sorry,” I said. “I think I might be coming down with something. You think we could—”
    “It’s okay,” she said. “It’s late anyway.”
    It was quiet in the room except for wind rattling the windowpanes. I was starting to doze, but Paula was still wide awake, running her fingers through my sweaty chest hair.
    We had breakfast at the inn’s restaurant. The atmosphere wasn’t any more active or less depressing than it had been last night. There were a few couples at the other tables, but they were all in their seventies and eighties and I felt like I was in the cafeteria at a nursing home. I wanted to make a joke about it to Paula, but I knew she would get upset and accuse me of “trying to ruin the weekend.” So I kept my mouth shut and instead made a few phony comments about how “peaceful” and “relaxing” it was up here in the off-season, and Paula smiled, agreeing, although I think she probably felt the same way I did.
    After breakfast, we took a walk in town. “Town” was several quaint streets with small, artsy stores. It was a sunny, windy, chilly day. Most of the shops were open, but the streets were mainly empty and bleak. Paula seemed to be enjoying herself though, browsing in crafts stores. I was bored and sat down on a bench and read The New York Times. Later, at about ten-thirty, we decided we would go back to the room to change for tennis.
    There were two courts at the end of town on Main Street. It was warming up outside, but it was still cool in the shade. Both courts were taken so Paula and I waited behind the gate.
    Finally, the two older men who were playing on the court nearest to us finished their match and Paula and I went on.
    I was out of shape and it showed. My timing and footwork were off and I couldn’t get my backhand going. Paula was having difficulty covering the court too, but she was playing a lot better than I was.
    “Excuse me!”
    I looked over to my left and there was a guy, about my age, with wavy brown hair, standing alongside an attractive, dark-haired woman who looked like she was about twenty.
    “Do you think we can hit with you for a while?” the man asked.
    I thought this was pretty ballsy of him, especially since Paula and I had been on the court only for a few minutes. But then, remembering seeing a sign on the fence that the courts were for “Stockbridge town residents” only, I said, “Sure, I don’t see why not.”
    The couple came onto the court and greeted us at the net. Their names were Doug and Kirsten. Paula and I introduced ourselves and we all shook hands. Kirsten had a very small head. She was pretty, but vacuous-looking. Doug was about my height, but he was in great shape with thin, toned legs and cut muscles. They both sounded like they were from New York—definitely not locals—and I already regretted inviting them to play with us. Doug was wearing an expensive tennis outfit—a short-sleeved sweater and matching shorts—and Kirsten was wearing a clean white tennis dress. They each had brought three rackets and Doug had a large gym bag stuffed with God knows what.
    I looked at Paula, rolling my eyes, but she didn’t seem to understand what I thought was so funny.
    The four of us started hitting and I knew right away that this wasn’t going to be fun. Doug and Kirsten had good strokes, but they were taking themselves much too seriously. The way he grunted and she squealed after each shot, it sounded like they were having loud sex.
    After rallying for about ten minutes, Doug said, “So are you guys ready for a match?”
    “I don’t think so,” I said.
    “Why not?” Paula asked me.
    “I don’t know,” I said. “I mean, if everybody else wants to play I guess I’m