Rainy Sixth Inning

The rain started during the fifth inning, a steady drum against the metal roof of the stadium. Sarah watched droplets slide down the beer in her hand, condensation merging with the storm outside. The baseball field below had turned into a muddy mess, players slipping in the brown sludge as they chased fly balls that seemed to materialize from the gray sky.

Three months since David left. Three months of sleeping on his side of the bed anyway, of buying her own cigarettes at the corner store where the clerk still asked "his usual?" Three months of her hair growing past her shoulders, dark strands that he used to wrap around his fingers during sex, during fights, during those ordinary moments that had felt like everything.

"They're gonna call it," the man next to her shouted over thunder. "No way they finish this one."

Sarah nodded, finishing her drink. The waterlogged cardboard coaster beneath it disintegrated when she lifted it, wet pieces clinging to her palm like confetti from a celebration she hadn't attended.

She stood up, knees popping from sitting too long on the cold metal. The stadium was half-empty already, fair-weather fans retreating to dry homes and warm dinners. Sarah had nowhere to be. The apartment still held ghosts—his toothbrush by the sink, his baseball glove gathering dust in the closet, his smell fading from the sheets with each wash.

Outside, the rain soaked through her clothes instantly. She walked toward the train station, water plastering her hair to her face, streaming down her neck like someone else's tears. A salon sign flickered in the storm's half-light: OPEN. The window displayed mannequin heads with glossy, styled cuts—bobs and pixies and layers that suggested new beginnings.

The bell above the door chimed when she pushed it open. Water pooled around her boots on the linoleum.

"Close in fifteen," the stylist called from the back. She emerged with purple streaks in her black hair and measuring tape around her neck. "Oh. You're soaked."

Sarah met her eyes in the mirror. "I need it all off."

The stylist's scissors flashed silver like lightning. Sarah watched dark coils fall to the floor, piling up like seaweed on a beach. With each snip, something inside her loosened—her husband's fingers untangling from memory, his grip slipping, his voice fading beneath the scissors' rhythm.

When it was done, she looked like someone she'd almost met once. The stylist held up a hand mirror. Sarah studied her reflection. Strangers didn't wrap their fingers in hair that barely grazed your ears.

She paid and walked back into the downpour. For the first time in months, the water felt like it was finally washing something clean instead of just drowning her in what she'd lost. The radio from a passing car carried a baseball announcer's voice: "—called on account of rain. They'll resume tomorrow at noon."

Sarah smiled. Some games got called. Some didn't. Either way, the rain would stop eventually.