The Last Inning

The divorce papers sat on the kitchen counter like a judgment, but all Marcus could think about was whether he'd remembered to buy more vitamin D supplements. Sarah had always managed the pill organizer — those little plastic compartments marked with days of the week, tiny organized rectangles of care he'd taken for granted. Now the bottles stood in chaotic array on the counter, and he couldn't remember which ones to take with breakfast.

Barnaby — the cat, not the grandfather Sarah kept mentioning in that tone that suggested Marcus should be more like him — wound between Marcus's ankles, purring with the unconditional affection of someone who didn't know about the arguments that had stretched past midnight, about how Sarah had packed her things in the kind of efficient silence that scared him more than screaming ever could.

"At least you're still here," Marcus said, but the words hung hollow in the air. Even the cat felt like temporary property, like everything else being divided with the precision of strangers.

Outside, the October dark pressed against the windows. Sarah had left three weeks ago, but her ghost remained: the way she organized the spice rack, the specific brand of coffee she bought, the baseball mitt she'd given him two anniversaries ago because she said every man should have one, even if he only used it to catch balls from their neighbor's kid.

He turned on the TV. Game 7. The kind of moment Sarah would have watched with him, her legs draped over his lap, explaining statistics he pretended to understand while mostly watching the way her hair caught the lamplight. Now the announcers' voices echoed in the apartment, unfamiliar and too loud.

Marcus considered calling his brother, then remembered it was midnight on a Tuesday. He considered Sarah's phone number, then remembered she'd changed it. He considered a lot of things, mostly the way a life could dismantle itself in degrees, like innings in a game you hadn't realized you were losing until the bottom of the ninth.

The cat meowed, impatient with dinner being late. Marcus sighed and moved toward the cabinet where the food lived. Tomorrow he'd figure out the vitamins. Tomorrow he'd call a lawyer about the things the papers didn't cover. Tomorrow he'd try to remember who he was when someone wasn't watching.

Tonight, there was baseball and a cat who needed him, and for the moment, that would have to be enough.