The Eighth Inning

The coaxial cable refused to snake through the wall cavity, fighting me like a living thing. I'd been at this apartment for two hours, my knees screaming on the hardwood, while the client—a thirty-something guy named Marcus—paced behind me, checking his iPhone every thirty seconds.

"Any luck?" he asked, not really looking at me.

"Almost," I lied.

The TV was mounted above a fireplace that had clearly never been used. Dust coated the mantle. A single photograph sat there: Marcus, arms around another man, both laughing at something off-camera. His hair was darker then. Not gray at the temples like mine.

My phone buzzed in my pocket. Elena again. I didn't need to look to know what she'd text: *We need to talk.* The fourth time this week.

"You want the game on?" Marcus asked, gesturing toward a laptop on the counter. Baseball. Bottom of the eighth. Dodgers down by two.

"Sure."

He tapped the screen. The crowd noise filled the apartment. I worked faster, sweat stinging my eyes. The cable finally broke through. I connected it, tested the signal. Perfect.

"All set," I said, gathering my tools.

Marcus watched the screen. A batter stepped in. Two outs. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"That guy in the photo," I said, gesturing toward the mantle. "He look familiar?"

Marcus blinked. Then really looked at me for the first time. Recognition dawned—slow, then all at once. "David?"

"Hey, Marcus."

"Jesus." He ran a hand through his hair. "How long has it been? Eight years?"

"Something like that."

"You're installing cable now?"

"Economy, you know."

The Dodgers batter struck out. Marcus's phone lit up. *David*, it said, with a heart emoji. The name, not mine.

"Is he..." I started.

"He died. Last month. Cancer." Marcus's voice cracked. "I keep thinking he's going to walk through that door. That's why I needed the cable installed. I need the noise. I can't stand the quiet."

My phone buzzed again. *I'm leaving, Elena had texted.*

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Yeah. Me too."

I packed my bag. The apartment felt smaller suddenly, crowded by ghosts.

"Hey, David," Marcus said as I reached the door. "You want to stay? Watch the rest of the game?"

I looked at my phone. Elena's message still glowed on the screen.

"I can't," I said. "I've got somewhere I need to be."

He nodded, understanding something I hadn't said. "Take care of yourself, man."

"You too."

In the hallway, I leaned against the wall and called Elena. She didn't answer. The ninth inning was starting somewhere behind me. I walked toward the stairs, my phone in my hand, and didn't look back.