Bottom of the Ninth

The baseball game flickered silently on the bar television, its blue light washing over Maria's exhausted face. She'd been nursing this drink for two hours, waiting for him to show. The vintage fedora on the stool beside her — his lucky hat, he'd called it — sat like a monument to a better version of their marriage.

"Mind if I?" A stranger slid onto the stool, gesturing to the empty space. Maria shook her head, too tired to speak. He was handsome in that way men are when they've stopped trying — comfortable in his skin, loosened tie, eyes that had seen enough to stop judging.

"Waiting for someone?"

"No," she lied. "Just watching the game."

They sat in companionable silence until her iPhone buzzed. David's name lit up the screen: *Can't make it. Working late. Again.* The notification rolled across the glass like an accusation she'd heard a thousand times before.

The stranger noticed. "Bad news?"

"Just the usual," she said, and surprised herself by continuing. "He's always working. I'm always waiting. Tonight was supposed to be different."

"Let me guess — tonight was supposed to be the night he finally prioritized you?"

Maria laughed, the sound rusty in her throat. "Something like that."

"I know a place," the stranger said. "Back room. Pool table. I could teach you to play."

She should have said no. She should have gone home, packed his things, changed the locks. Instead, she followed him into the dim room where the pool table waited like an altar, its green felt glowing under amber lights.

"Your break," he said, handing her a cue.

Maria leaned over the table, the hat still on her mind, the game still flickering in the other room, her phone silent in her purse. For the first time in years, she wasn't waiting anymore.