The Fifth Inning

The cable guy said he'd be here between eight and noon. It's already two, and Elena's been staring at the blank television screen for three hours, nursing a headache that won't quit. She swallows another vitamin D pill—her third today—because her doctor says she's deficient, says that's probably why she's tired all the time, why everything feels like moving through syrup.

On the back patio, a fox appears. Not the mangy scavengers she's seen before, but a sleek, russet-coated thing that moves like it owns the yard. It sits on its haunches and watches her through the glass door, unmoving, considering.

"You and me both," she mutters.

Mark's baseball glove sits on the hall table where he left it three weeks ago when he walked out. The leather is cracking at the thumb. He played in college, would take their son Theo to games whenever the Yankees came to town. Theo's seven now, at school, asking questions Elena doesn't know how to answer. Daddy's gone on a business trip, she says. A long one.

The fox on the patio tilts its head. Something in its golden eyes—recognition, maybe. Or judgment.

Elena's phone buzzes. Mark's name lights up the screen. Again.

She hasn't picked up in two weeks. Can't. If she hears his voice, she might ask the question that's been sitting in her throat like glass: was it ever real, or was she just another game to him? Something to play through the fifth inning and then walk away from when the excitement wore off?

The fox stands, stretches, turns toward the fence.

"Wait," she says, but she's said it to Mark a thousand times already and it never worked, so why should now be different?

The cable guy finally knocks at three-thirty. She lets him in without speaking, watches him splice wires with practiced efficiency. Behind him, through the open door, the fox glances back once before disappearing into the woods.

"All set," the cable guy says.

She nods. She'll call Mark back tomorrow. Maybe. Today, she'll just sit in the quiet and let herself be empty.