The Last Inning

The dog - golden retriever, ancient now - lay by the empty pool, his breathing labored in the humidity. Mark watched the animal's chest rise and fall, counting the seconds between each shallow breath. This was what middle age looked like, he thought: not some grand crisis, but the slow accumulation of losses.

He should have been running - that's what the divorce counselor had suggested. Physical movement to process the emotional kind. Instead, he sat on his back patio at 2 AM, nursing bourbon he'd promised himself he wouldn't buy, staring at the pool his wife had insisted on installing three years ago. Now it was just a concrete monument to things they'd never use together again.

His phone buzzed. Jamie. The friend who'd introduced him to Sarah twenty years ago at that baseball game. Jamie, who'd been小心翼翼 about picking sides in the dissolution, who still sent texts like: "Thinking of you, brother."

Mark remembered that day at the stadium. The crack of the bat, Sarah's laugh when he'd spilled nachos on her jeans, the way the summer sun had caught the gold flecks in her eyes. They'd left in the seventh inning - couldn't wait. That's what he'd thought love was: the inability to wait for the next moment.

Now he had all the time in the world.

The dog whined, a soft sound that barely carried across the patio. Mark stood, joints stiff, and walked to the animal's side. The retriever lifted his head, cloudy eyes finding Mark's face with the same unconditional gaze that had greeted him every morning for eleven years.

"You're a good boy," Mark whispered, stroking the soft fur behind the ears. "You're still here."

The dog sighed and settled back against the concrete. Mark sat beside him, watching the first light bleed into the sky. He would run tomorrow, he decided. Or maybe the next day. For now, he'd sit with his oldest friend and wait for the sun to rise over the pool they couldn't afford to heat anymore.