Empty Seats, Full Heart

The cat was gone too. Elena's tabby, like the relationship itself, had belonged to her first, and when she'd packed her boxes last Tuesday, she'd taken the animal with her. Now my apartment was just me and the silence, which was somehow louder than the arguments had been.

At the office, the markets were having their own emotional crisis. One week we were riding a bull run to glory, the next day the bear had us by the throat. My boss Marcus called me into his office at 4 PM, his face grave.

"You're not sleeping," he said. "Your numbers are down. I know she left, but son, you've got to keep your head in the game."

"I'm fine," I lied, the words tasting like copper.

"Take tonight," he said, sliding a pair of baseball tickets across his desk. "Box seats. Dodgers versus Giants. My wife's sister's wedding. Go. Drink beer. Remember what it feels like to be human."

So I went. The stadium was electric—twenty-eight years old and I'd never felt more alone in a crowd. The crack of the bat, the collective gasp when a ball soared toward the left-field stands. The man beside me high-fived his wife. They had matching hats.

By the seventh inning stretch, I'd had three beers and clarity was arriving. The market would turn. Relationships ended. The cat had never really liked me anyway. And somewhere in this vast, indifferent universe, there was still the possibility of something new.

I bought a hot dog on the way out and ate it under the streetlights, feeling—for the first time in weeks—like tomorrow might be worth waking up for.