The Bottom of the Ninth

Elena smoothed the stray gray hair behind her ear and stared at the iphone glowing on the restaurant table. Another missed call from him. The baseball game played silently on the bar TV behind her—the bottom of the ninth, two outs, full count. She'd always hated baseball, but he'd loved it. Those Sunday afternoons when he'd watch and she'd pretend to care, asking questions about inning counts and batting averages just to see his face light up.

She remembered the last meal they'd shared: sautéed spinach with garlic, his favorite. He'd laughed when she pointed out the green flecks stuck in his teeth, then leaned across the table to kiss her anyway. That was three months ago, before the promotion, before the late nights at the office became permanent, before the hotel receipts she'd found in his coat pocket.

The bartender refilled her wine. 'Rough night?'

She almost laughed. Rough night, rough month, rough life. 'You could say that.'

Her phone buzzed again. This time a text: *Can we talk?*

On the TV, the batter struck out. Game over. The camera panned to a young couple in the stands, the woman throwing her arms around the man in celebration. Elena felt something crack open in her chest—not quite pain, not quite relief. Just the hollow echo of something that had been ending for a long time.

She typed back: *No.*

Then deleted it.

Then typed it again and hit send before she could change her mind.

The bartender raised an eyebrow at her phone. 'Everything okay?'

'No,' she said, and for the first time in months, she meant it. 'But it will be.'

She left a twenty on the bar and walked out into the cold night air, not looking back at the phone that buzzed again and again on the table behind her.