The Last Inning of August

The cable guy was forty-five minutes late, which gave Maya too much time to stare at the blank television screen and think about everything that had gone wrong with her marriage. She ran her fingers through her hair—still honey-blonde, unlike the gray that had started appearing in Jack's temples five years ago.

"Sorry about the wait," the technician said, stepping inside. He was younger than she expected, maybe thirty, with a name tag that read 'Ethan'."Been one of those days. You know how it is."

Maya did know. It had been 'one of those days' for three years now, since the miscarriage, since Jack started working late, since intimacy became something scheduled like a quarterly review. She felt like a zombie moving through her own life—present but not really there.

Ethan worked quickly, his hands competent and sure as he replaced the frayed cable behind the entertainment center. He found an old baseball glove wedged in the dust—Jack's from college, back when he still had dreams that didn't involve middle management and regional sales targets.

"You play?" Ethan asked, setting the glove on the coffee table.

"Used to watch him," Maya said. "Back when we still did things together."

Ethan paused, really looking at her for the first time. His eyes were brown, surprisingly gentle. "My wife and I... we're in that place too. Where you're roommates who happen to share a bed."

Maya laughed, a dry sound that surprised them both. She pressed her palm against the cool glass of the window, feeling the vibrations of the city below.

"The worst part," she said quietly, "is that I still love him. I just don't know if love is enough anymore."

Ethan finished the job and packed up his tools. At the door, he turned back. "For what it's worth, I think that's why it's hard. If you didn't love him, you would've left already."

After he left, Maya sat with the restored cable flickering in front of her—some reality show she didn't care about. She picked up Jack's old baseball glove, slid her hand inside. The leather was stiff, still shaped to his hand after all these years. She squeezed it once, testing the pocket, and made a decision.

Not about leaving or staying. But about no longer moving through her days like the walking dead. About demanding more than the leftovers of a life that used to have promise. About calling Jack and asking him to meet for dinner, not to talk about bills or schedules, but to remember why they'd started this game together in the first place.

The ninth inning wasn't over yet. And somehow, that made all the difference.