Drought Conditions

The bathtub leaked for three weeks before Sarah finally called the plumber. She'd been meaning to do it since the wedding—that was what she still called it, though technically it had been called off seven months ago. The water had become something she lived with, a persistent drip marking time like a melancholic clock.

Her sister's cat, Barnaby, whom she'd inherited after the overdose, sat on the bath mat watching the leak with intense fascination. Sarah sometimes wondered if the cat understood more about loss than she did.

"You going to fix that or just watch it?" she asked him. Barnaby blinked slowly, his golden eyes unimpressed by her attempt at conversation.

The baseball game played from the bedroom radio—Colin's old radio, the one he'd left behind along with his toothbrush and half the books. She hadn't turned it off in weeks. The announcer's voice was a familiar drone, white noise that filled the empty spaces of the apartment.

"...bottom of the ninth, two outs, bases loaded..."

Sarah knelt by the tub and ran her finger along the water stain spreading across the ceiling below. It bloomed like a bruise. She thought about Colin standing in this bathroom three months ago, telling her he wasn't ready, not really, maybe not ever. She remembered nodding, swallowing the scream rising in her throat, telling him it was fine, completely fine, while her hands shook so hard she'd had to grip the sink.

"...here's the pitch..."

She'd loved baseball once. Colin had taken her to Fenway for their first date, cheap seats in the right field bleachers. He'd explained the statistics, the geometry of the field, the poetry of a well-executed double play. She'd loved how his eyes lit up, how passionate he became. She'd loved him.

"...STRIKE THREE! Game over!"

The water continued to drip. Somewhere, a plumber would eventually come. Eventually, the ceiling would be repaired. Eventually, she'd pack up Colin's things and call the radio station about returning the season tickets she'd bought as a wedding gift.

Barnaby stood, stretched, and jumped onto the bathtub's edge. He batted at a drop of water as it fell, catching it perfectly.

"Good catch," Sarah said.

The cat looked at her, then at the door, then back at her as if waiting for something to happen.

"You're right," she said, standing up. "Enough of this."

She walked to the kitchen, found the Yellow Pages, and dialed. A plumber's voice answered, thick with a Boston accent. Behind her, the radio announced the starting lineup for tomorrow's game, and for the first time in months, Sarah thought she might actually tune in.