Lightning Over the Bullpen

The old baseball cap still smelled like her shampoo. Elaine's hat, the one she'd worn to every game until she stopped coming to anything at all.

Marcus sat in Section 14, Row 12, where they'd sat for twelve years of marriage. The dog—a rescued pit bull mix named Babe that neither of them had wanted—was waiting at home, probably sleeping on Elaine's side of the bed. The irony wasn't lost on him. The dog had outlasted their marriage by six months.

Below, the bull mascot danced near the dugout, inflating and deflating in that grotesque, cheerful way that made children scream. Marcus had never told Elaine about the bull market he'd ridden during the first years of their marriage, the risky crypto investments that had bought their house and then, years later, the divorce lawyer's retainer. The bull on the field was inflatable. The one in his portfolio had been all too real.

"First pitch in five," the announcer boomed.

Lightning cracked the sky—a sudden, violent fissure of white that made the crowd gasp. The players scattered. The tarp rolled out. In the chaos of evacuation, Marcus found himself pressed against a woman who smelled of rain and expensive whiskey.

"That was quite a strike," she said, nodding at the sky. She was maybe fifty, with silver hair that fell in loose waves and eyes that had seen something.

"Better than anything happening on the field," he said, surprising himself. He hadn't flirted in fifteen years. Hadn't wanted to.

Her name was Nora. She'd been coming to games alone since her husband died two years ago. She liked the pitcher, something about his mechanics. They ended up at a bar three blocks from the stadium, surrounded by other rain-refugees, drinking bourbon and talking about everything and nothing.

"I keep my husband's hat," Nora said, touching the brim of a faded cap beside her drink. "Stupid, right? It's just a hat."

Marcus fingered Elaine's cap in his pocket. "No. I think some things keep us tethered. Until they don't."

Outside, lightning struck again. The bar lights flickered. Babe the bull was probably asleep on the couch. The baseball game would be rescheduled. Something fundamental had shifted beneath Marcus's feet, something as sudden and illuminating as the storm itself.

"Your dog," Nora said, reading his thoughts. "The one you're worried is lonely. She's fine. Dogs know how to wait."

Marcus finished his drink. The storm was breaking. Everything was different now.