They lost the first one in forty-one minutes.
Six-one, six-two, on a Tuesday, on an outside court, in front of about four hundred people who had mostly come for the match after.
Here is the thing everybody who was there got wrong.
They did not play badly.
Marisa Cardoso hit eleven clean winners in forty-one minutes, which for a first-round mixed doubles is absurd. Milo Reyes served at sixty-nine per cent and put four balls on the line.
They lost six-one six-two because they were two people on the same side of a net who did not know where the other one was.
Four times she went for a ball he had called.
Twice they left the middle entirely and stood at opposite tramlines like a pair of gateposts while a lob went between them, and a man in the third row said something in Spanish that carried.
At four-one in the second he said, "Yours."
And she said, "Say it earlier," in Portuguese, at a volume that made the umpire look down.
At five-two she went for a smash he had also gone for and they nearly took each other out at the net, and there is a photograph of the exact moment — his racquet about four inches from her face and both of their bodies going in opposite directions — which was on the internet within the hour and which has been used, in the years since, in approximately eleven articles about them.
She has it framed.
He does not know that.
They shook hands at the net with the other pair and the whole thing took about four seconds, and then they walked to opposite ends of the court to get their bags.
Neither of them said one word in the car.
It is forty-one minutes to the hotel and neither of them said anything for the whole of it, and both of them were on their phones.
Milo Reyes was typing: This is not going to work.
Marisa Cardoso was typing: You have made me look like a fool in front of four hundred people.
And Teresa Lima, sixty-one years old, sitting in the front seat next to the driver with her arms folded, watched both of them do it in the mirror and did not say one single word until they got to the hotel.