The Seventh Inning

The **vitamin** bottles lined up on Carlos's nightstand like a pharmaceutical cityscape—D3, B12, CoQ10, omega-3. At 47, he'd started measuring his mortality in milligrams. His wife Elena had left six months ago, citing his "obsession with aging" among her reasons, though the truth was messier, harder to name.

He sat at a tiki bar in Fort Lauderdale, nursing a drink that cost too much, watching spring training **baseball** on a television bolted above bottles of rum. The announcers spoke of rebuilding seasons, fresh talent, the infinite promise of March. Carlos had played in college until his shoulder gave way—no dramatic injury, just the slow erosion of cartilage, the body's quiet rebellion.

His phone lit up: a photo from his sister. Their father's **dog**, a wheezing golden retriever named Buster, sat by the door, waiting. The old man had died two weeks ago. Buster still watched for him. The loyalty of dogs felt cruel sometimes.

Carlos rubbed his sweaty **palm** against his shorts. He'd met someone here—Sarah, 38, divorced, selling timeshares to people who couldn't afford them. She'd traced the lines in his hand last night, half-drunk, pretending to read his fortune. "You're going to live a long time," she'd said, like it was a blessing.

He checked his watch. Elena wanted him to come by the house today. To discuss the final paperwork, she'd said. But Carlos suspected something else—maybe she'd found something of his she wanted to return, or wanted to return something she'd kept. Their marriage had ended not with fireworks but with the slow recognition that they'd become strangers who shared a bed.

The bartender placed another drink in front of him. "First round's on the house, buddy. You look like you need it."

Carlos swallowed. He thought about his father's vitamin regimen, how the old man had punctuated every meal with a handful of supplements, certain he was buying himself more time. In the end, it had bought him eight extra months of life in a nursing home, watching the same game shows on repeat.

He tipped back the drink. The truth was, he didn't know whether he was afraid of dying or just afraid of living alone. The vitamins, the bi-annual physicals, the obsessive skincare routine—maybe they weren't about health at all. Maybe they were just ways to keep the body occupied so the mind wouldn't have to face the quiet.

On TV, a rookie hit a home run. The crowd roared. Carlos ordered one more drink. Buster would be waiting by the door for weeks, months, learning each day that some things don't come back.

He swallowed his evening vitamins without water, dry against the back of his throat. Tomorrow he'd go to Elena's. Tomorrow he'd figure out what came next. For now, there was baseball, and the barstool underneath him, and the long Florida night ahead.