Line Drive

Elena stood in her bathroom at 2 AM, pulling stray gray hairs from her temples with tweezers. Each pluck felt like a betrayal—of the woman she'd been, of the husband who'd left, of the future they'd promised each other in their twenties. At 47, she was starting over, and somehow these silver threads emerging from her scalp felt like the most honest thing about her.

The condo was silent except for the rhythmic *thwack* of the baseball hitting the wall from the apartment next door. Her neighbor's son practiced nightly, a mechanical persistence that reminded her of Mark's dedication to his law career, right up until he wasn't dedicated to their marriage anymore. She'd met someone new three weeks ago—a man with kind eyes and an unapologetic bald spot who told her he liked her because she didn't pretend to have it all figured out. She wasn't sleeping with him yet, but she thought about it during those baseball sounds, imagining different kinds of rhythms in her bed.

Barnaby, Mark's ancient tabby cat who'd somehow ended up with her in the divorce, brushed against her ankles. His orange fur was matted with neglect—he'd stopped grooming himself properly since Mark moved out. Elena scooped him up, his thirteen pounds of purring vulnerability heavy against her chest. She'd resented getting custody of this cat, another reminder of what she'd lost. But last week, she'd found herself crying into his fur after a particularly brutal day at the ad agency where she now managed people half her age who called her "ma'am" behind her back.

"We're both getting old," she whispered to Barnaby, setting him down on the counter where he immediately began kneading her bathrobe with claws that needed trimming. She studied her reflection in the mirror—lines around her eyes, the silver threads she'd been plucking, the exhaustion that seemed permanent these days. Then she put down the tweezers.

Tomorrow she'd call the man with the kind eyes. She'd make an appointment at the salon to let someone professional handle whatever color her hair decided to be. She'd finally take Barnaby to the vet. And maybe—just maybe—she'd knock on her neighbor's door and tell the kid his swing was improving.

The baseball hit the wall again. This time, the sound didn't feel like an intrusion. It felt like someone still trying.