The Last Inning

Maya came home at 9:47 PM feeling like something that had been hollowed out and left to decay. A zombie in corporate casual wear, moving on automatic pilot through a world that no longer seemed entirely real.

Inside the apartment, Marcus sat on the couch, eyes fixed on the baseball game flickering across the television. The cable subscription they'd argued about last month—another expense they couldn't afford, he'd said, before throwing up his hands and ordering it anyway. Now it broadcast the bottom of the ninth, ambient noise filling the silence between them.

"Hey," she said, but the word barely escaped her throat.

"Hey." He didn't turn away from the screen. "You're late."

"The merger." She dropped her bag on the floor. "Another three hours of spreadsheets that no one will ever look at again."

Outside, lightning fractured the sky, illuminating the apartment in stark flashes of white. Their cat, Barnaby, lifted his head from Marcus's lap, yellow eyes reflecting something ancient and knowing. Then the thunder came, rattling the windows in their frames.

"They're going to lose," Marcus said, still watching the game. "They're down by two, bottom of the ninth, two outs. It's over."

Maya sank into the armchair opposite him. "Why are you still watching?"

He shrugged, the motion sending Barnaby scrambling to the floor with an offended look. "Because sometimes they come back. Because maybe—just maybe—this is the night something impossible happens."

The announcer's voice rose. The batter connected. A home run, arcing through the humid air toward the lights.

Marcus turned to her then, and she saw what she'd been too exhausted to notice: the same hollowed-out look in his eyes, the same exhaustion that went deeper than sleep could fix. They were both zombies now, moving through their days, waiting for something to feel real again.

"I'm sorry about the cable," he said softly. "I just wanted something to make the evenings feel less empty."

She crossed the room and sat beside him on the couch, their shoulders touching. On screen, the team celebrated. Barnaby returned, jumping up to settle between them. Outside, the storm broke, rain finally washing away the summer humidity.

"We're still here," she said. "That's something."

"Yeah." He leaned into her. "That's something."

They watched the post-game coverage in the dark, two people learning how to be alive again, one small inning at a time.