The Bitter Aftertaste of Regret

The baseball sat on the mantelpiece, gathering dust for twelve years. Marcus had caught it at the game—the game where Sarah told him she was leaving. He remembered the crack of the bat, the ball soaring through the humid July air, his hand closing around it. He'd turned, grinning, to share the moment with her. Her seat was empty.

Now, the ball was a fossil of a moment that never fully happened.

Barnaby, his elderly golden retriever, hobbled into the room. The dog's hips were failing, same as Marcus's spirit. Marcus dropped the chalky vitamin tablet onto the floor—Barnaby's glucosamine supplement, the same damn routine every morning. The dog nudged it hopefully, as if it might be a treat.

"Not today, buddy," Marcus said, his voice cracking. "Just swallow it."

He was forty-three, but he felt ancient. The promotion at work had come through yesterday. Managing Director. He'd worked fifteen years for this moment. The email from HR had arrived while he was researching dog hospice care.

He picked up the baseball, running his thumb over the faded autograph. Sarah had loved baseball. She'd taught him the intricacies of the game, the poetry in a pitcher's windup, the calculus of a sacrifice fly. After she left, he couldn't watch. Couldn't listen. Couldn't care.

Barnaby licked his hand, and something in Marcus's chest cracked open.

He set the baseball down and knelt beside the dog, burying his face in soft fur that smelled of coconut shampoo and slow decay. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry I've been waiting for life to start again. I'm sorry I haven't been living while I've been waiting."

The vitamin tablet lay on the hardwood, a small white failure.

Marcus stood up, wiped his eyes, and picked up the phone. He dialed his sister for the first time in six months. Then he'd call the IT guy about his forgotten Netflix password. Then he'd take Barnaby to the beach, even if they only made it to the shoreline before the dog's legs gave out.

The baseball could wait on the mantelpiece. Life was happening now, in the ache of his knees and the warmth of old fur and the bitter aftertaste of finally swallowing what he needed.