The Longest Inning

Marcus sat by the apartment pool at 3 AM, nursing a whiskey he'd stolen from his roommate's cabinet. The water lay still and black beneath the fluorescent hum, reflecting nothing except his own hollowed-out face.

He felt like a zombie these days—dead inside but still walking through the motions of his sales job, his relationships, his carefully curated life. Three years since Sarah left, and he hadn't felt anything since. Just an endless loop of waking up, selling software to people who hated him, coming home to an empty apartment, sleeping, repeating.

Then his phone buzzed. David. His best friend from college, whom he hadn't spoken to in two years. Since the wedding where David got drunk and told Marcus he was wasting his life, and Marcus had punched him.

"You still up?" David's text read.

Marcus stared at the screen. Some part of him wanted to ignore it, but another part—a part he thought had died years ago—remembered summer nights, cheap beer, and conversations about everything and nothing. Before ambition and disappointment carved canyons between them.

They met at the same pool where Marcus sat now, back when they were twenty-two and the world felt conquerable. David had brought a baseball glove that night, insisting they play catch even though it was midnight and they had nowhere to throw.

"Life's just a really long game," David had said, the ball smacking into the leather. "Sometimes you strike out. Sometimes you get hit by a pitch. But you keep swinging."

Marcus had laughed then, full of that terrifying certainty that comes with youth.

Now, at thirty-five, Marcus typed: "Pool. 15 minutes."

When David arrived, they didn't hug. They just sat side by side, knees drawn up, watching the water's artificial shimmer. David was balder, heavier. Marcus wondered if he looked just as wrecked.

"I saw Sarah," David said finally. "She's happy. Has a kid now."

Marcus felt something crack in his chest—resentment, relief, he couldn't tell.

"I'm not," he said. "I haven't been alive since she left. I'm just—"

"A zombie," David finished. "I know. I've been one too, since my divorce."

They sat in silence until the sky began to gray.

"Want to play catch?" David asked, pulling a baseball from his pocket like he'd known this moment was coming. "Like old times."

Marcus caught the ball. For the first time in three years, he felt something other than numb. Not hope exactly, but the memory of it. A reminder that even zombies could feel the impact of a ball hitting their hands.

"Yeah," he said, throwing it back. "Yeah, I do."