Electric July

The baseball field had been our sanctuary, back when silence between us felt comfortable rather than heavy. Mark had pitched fastballs that summer—lazy, imperfect arcs across the twilight—while I stood at home plate, bat heavy in my hands, missing every single one. He'd laugh, that sound like gravel under tires, and say I had the worst swing in amateur league history. That was July, three years ago, before the silences grew teeth.

Now it's July again. Lightning fractures the sky above Chicago, white veins spreading across a bruise-purple ceiling. My cat, Oscar—Mark's parting gift, a ginger tom who chose me in the divorce—presses against my leg, purring through the thunder. He's always been the better judge of character.

The iPhone lights up on the nightstand. 2:17 AM.

The notification slice shows Mark's name.

My thumb hovers. Three years of radio silence, broken by whatever sits inside that message. Could be anything. An accidental pocket dial. A drunk text. Maybe his mother died—she always liked me, called me 'the daughter she never had but somehow lost anyway.' Could be: *I saw you at that Cubs game last week.* Could be: *I'm sorry.*

Oscar meows, impatient with my paralysis.

Outside, lightning strikes again—closer this time. The building's fire alarm chirps once, confused by the static charge. The moment feels electric, poised. Like standing at home plate while the pitch winds back, the whole world compressed into one impossible decision: swing or don't swing.

Three years ago, I missed. The ball hit the chain-link fence with a sound that echoed through the empty parking lot. Mark wrapped his arms around me from behind, his chin on my shoulder. "Your form's all wrong," he whispered. "You're thinking too hard."

I open the message.

*I sold the house.*

That's it. No preamble. No emotion. Just facts, delivered like fastballs I can't hit.

Oscar jumps onto the bed, walks across my chest. He doesn't know about the house with the porch where we drank cheap wine and watched summer storms roll in. He doesn't know about the baseball field or the silence that grew until it swallowed everything whole.

The cat settles, purring. Outside, the rain finally breaks. I delete the message unread, then type back: *Good.*

Somewhere in this city, Mark is holding his phone. Somewhere, a baseball field waits empty in the dark. Somewhere, lightning still strikes, and somewhere, someone learns to swing at whatever comes next.