The Last Inning

The orange glow of sunset caught in Sarah's hair as we stood by the parking garage elevator. Three years of working together, and this was it—her last day.

"You never told me," she said, leaning against the scratched metal doors. Her palm rested flat against the panel, fingers splayed like she was holding something invisible between us.

"Told you what?" My heart hammered. The garage smelled of exhaust and old rain.

"Don't give me that bull, Michael." Her voice cracked, just slightly. "I've seen how you look at me."

I had. God, I had. Every meeting, every coffee run, every late night when the office emptied out and it was just the two of us under fluorescent lights. I'd wanted to say something a thousand times. But there was the age difference—she was thirty-two to my forty-six. There was the fact that we worked together. There was the divorce I was still technically in the middle of, the one that had dragged on for eighteen months like some endless baseball game gone into extra innings.

"Baseball," I said suddenly. "That first day, when you asked what I did on weekends. I told you I coached Little League."

"And I told you my dad played in the minors," she said softly. "That was the moment, wasn't it?"

"Yeah."

The elevator dinged. The doors slid open, empty and waiting.

"I'm not coming back," she said. "I took the job in Austin."

"I know." I'd seen the email. Congratulations on your new position.

"You could have said something," she said. "Anytime in three years."

"I know."

She stepped closer. Her hair smelled like coconut and something floral—gardenias, maybe. She reached out and took my hand, palm to palm, fingers interlacing. It wasn't romantic anymore. It was an autopsy of what never happened.

"My dad died before he got called up," she said. "He used to tell me: you can't wait for the perfect pitch. Sometimes you just have to swing."

She let go of my hand.

"I'm glad I met you, Michael. But I'm not going to wait anymore."

The elevator doors slid shut between us. I watched the floor numbers light up—2, 3, 4—until she was gone, and I was alone in the parking garage with my what-ifs and the orange light fading from the sky.

Somewhere in the distance, a car horn sounded. Like an umpire calling time, but nobody had won.