The Last Inning

Maria called me 'cat' the morning she left. Not with affection, but with that weary pity you reserve for something that keeps returning to a bowl that's been empty for years.

I was forty-seven, dangling by a thread at the cable company, watching younger men with better smiles climb past me. The fox—that's what we called Sullivan in the office—had already cornered the promotion I'd been promised. He moved like something sleek and hungry, always three moves ahead, charming the clients while I wrestled with coaxial cables in crawlspaces.

The day everything broke, I was at Mrs. Gable's house, untangling a mess of wires behind her television. Baseball flickered on the screen—some team from before, from when the game meant something. She'd lost her husband the year before, and sometimes she'd forget, offering me coffee and talking about a man who wasn't there.

"Your father loved the Cubs," she said, smiling at the ghost beside me. "1952, he caught a foul ball. Still has it somewhere."

I found myself telling her things I hadn't said aloud. About Maria, about the way our marriage had become a series of disconnected moments, like channels flickering past too fast to follow. About how Sullivan had started staying late at the office with my wife, both of them laughing at something I wasn't part of.

Mrs. Gable nodded, her hands folded in her lap. "Love's like cable, you know. It only works if everything's connected right. One loose wire, and the whole thing goes to static."

That night, Maria was gone. Her closet emptied, her jewelry box bare. Just a note on the kitchen counter: *I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry.*

I sat in the darkened living room, the cable box blinking its lonely light. A stray cat appeared at the sliding door—orange, with one torn ear. It watched me through the glass, eyes reflecting something like understanding. Or maybe just hunger.

I let it in. It curled against my side as the baseball game droned on—some meaningless matchup between teams I'd stopped caring about years ago. For the first time in months, something breathed and warm was touching me.

"Fox won, cat lost," I whispered to the empty room. But the animal only purred, electric and alive against my chest.

Outside, Sullivan's headlights swept across our lawn. Maria was in the passenger seat. They drove past without stopping. The cat nudged my hand with its wet nose, and I realized I was finally, completely alone—and that some connections, once severed, can never be spliced back together.