Late Innings

The neon orange of the vitamin bottle caught the streetlight outside her window, casting amber shadows across the empty pillow beside her. Sarah swallowed another D3 supplement, wondering if nutrients could fix what three years of marriage counseling couldn't.

Down on the corner, the old baseball field flickered to life—teenagers playing under the lights, their voices carrying through the humid June night. Mark had loved baseball. Met him at a Dodger game, actually. Seventh inning stretch, he'd spilled orange soda on her favorite white dress, then bought her a beer to apologize. She'd laughed, and that was that.

Now the bottle sat on her nightstand like an accusation. 'Take daily for joint health,' the label read. Her joints were fine. Her heart was another matter.

She found herself at the kitchen table at 3 AM, staring at the divorce papers like they were a scouting report she couldn't decipher. The orange glow of the refrigerator light made everything look warm, deceptive. Mark hadn't wanted to fight for it. Said they'd grown apart like teams in different leagues.

The vitamin bottle tipped over, pills scattering like stolen bases. Sarah knelt to gather them, her breath hitching. The clock ticked—bottom of the ninth, two outs, full count. She could stay in this game or walk away.

She stood, left the pills on the floor, and opened the back door. The baseball field's distant cheers washed over her. Somewhere, someone was rounding third, heading home, and the crowd was losing their mind. Sarah stepped into the night and let herself believe the game wasn't over yet.