Bottom of the Ninth

Marcus sat at the corner of The Rail, nursing whiskey he couldn't afford, watching the baseball game on the television above the bar. Some farm team nobody cared about. He'd played in high school—second base, decent glove, no power. That lifetime ago.

"You look like shit," Elena said, sliding onto the stool beside him. Three years since the divorce papers, two since he'd seen her. She looked good. Too good.

"Working late again," he muttered. "The corporate zombie shuffle." The term had become a joke among the contractors—how the company ground them down until they moved through fluorescent corridors like the walking dead, until even giving a damn felt optional.

She signaled the bartender for tequila. "They still working you seven days a week?"

"They laid off half the department yesterday. I'm waiting for the axe." He gestured at the television. "Used to think if I kept my head down, played by the rules, swung at the right pitches..." He laughed, bitter and short. "What a load of bull that turned out to be."

Elena turned toward him, really looked at him for the first time. "You know what I heard? I heard you got promoted twice. I heard you bought that condo downtown. I heard you made it."

"And you believed it?"

"I wanted to." She touched his hand, her fingers warm against his cold skin. "I wanted to believe you were somewhere better than here."

The baseball game went into extra innings. Outside, rain started falling, sheets of it blurring the streetlights into smeared gold. Marcus felt something crack open inside him—something he'd sealed shut when he signed those divorce papers.

"I'm not," he said quietly. "I'm exactly where I was. I'm just older."

Elena finished her tequila in one swallow. "So what now?"

He looked at her—really looked at her—and for the first time in years, felt something that wasn't exhaustion or cynicism. "I don't know. But I think I'm done being a zombie."

She smiled, small and genuine. "Then buy me another drink. We'll figure out the rest."