Raindrops on the Mound

Mike stood behind the office building, smoking his third cigarette of the hour, feeling like a zombie that hadn't yet been put down. Forty-two years old and already dead inside—that's what seven years of mergers and acquisitions law did to a man. The corporate brain-eating was slower than the movies, but just as thorough.

'You still smoke like it's a full-time job?'

Mike turned. Elena. His college friend. The one who'd slipped away after his first marriage imploded, when he'd become too ashamed of his own wreckage to keep showing up.

'Only on Tuesdays,' he said, stubbing it out. 'What brings you to the financial district?'

'Baseball game,' she said, pointing across the street. 'My nephew's playing. Little League championship.' She smiled, but her eyes were assessing him, cataloging the weight he'd gained, the gray in his beard, the way his suit hung wrong.

'Come watch,' she said. 'It's raining. They'll probably call it.'

The stadium lights buzzed in the drizzle. On the mound, a boy in an oversized helmet threw pitches into the water-soaked dirt. His father paced the dugout, arms crossed, already disappointed.

'Marcus divorced me,' Elena said quietly. 'Last year.'

Mike couldn't look at her. 'I'm sorry.'

'He said I was too much. Too emotional. Too present.' She laughed bitterly. 'Meanwhile, you look like you haven't felt anything since 2019.' It wasn't mean—it was just true. That was Elena.

The boy on the mound threw again. The ball sailed high, disappeared into the gray sky. No one moved. Then it splashed down in shallow puddle behind the plate, sending up a perfect little crown of dirty water.

'You know what my therapist says?' Elena continued. 'She says we're all just walking around hungry, eating each other alive, pretending we're not zombies.' She paused. 'She says the trick is finding someone who admits they're hungry too.'

On the field, the boy's father yelled something about mechanics. The boy adjusted his cap, wiped water from his eyes, threw again. This one caught the edge of the glove.

'I'm hungry, El,' Mike said, and the admission felt like surfacing after holding his breath underwater. 'I'm so fucking hungry.'

She took his hand. Her palm was warm, alive. 'Then let's eat.'