The Seventh Inning Stretch

The fluorescent hum of the office at 2 AM felt like a **vitamin** deficiency she couldn't supplement away. Sarah stared at her reflection in the darkened monitor — eyes glazed, movements mechanical, a **zombie** in business casual. Three years since the divorce, and she'd forgotten how to be anything other than efficient, composed, slowly hollowing out like a tree struck by lightning that still manages to leaf.

The **baseball** game played on her second monitor, a distraction she couldn't quit. Her father had watched religiously, and now she understood — not for the sport, but for the rhythm, the continuity. Something that moved forward in innings and outs while her own life seemed circular, stuck.

She reached for her **water** bottle, condensation slick against her palm. Her phone lit up: *Thinking of you.* From him. The man she'd met at her sister's wedding, the one who made her laugh like she used to, the one she kept at arm's length because she'd forgotten how to fall without shattering.

On the screen, a player adjusted his **hat** against the stadium lights, a small human gesture broadcast to millions. Something twisted in her chest — grief, or maybe its opposite. The sudden realization that she'd been mourning not just her marriage, but the version of herself who'd believed in happy endings, who'd worn optimism like a uniform.

The crowd roared. A home run arc against the night sky.

Sarah typed back: *Coffee Sunday?*

Then deleted it. Typed again. Hit send.

She wasn't dead yet. Even zombies, she'd heard somewhere, were just hungry for something they couldn't name. The game moved to the seventh inning. She could still learn to play.