The Third Inning

Margot hadn't eaten anything but takeout since the funeral. The containers piled up in her sink like small cardboard monuments to grief. Tonight, she forced herself to chop spinach, the knife hitting the cutting board with a rhythm that felt almost like breathing. Leonard used to cook actual meals—meals with sides and timing and the kind of care that made a Tuesday night feel like something worth honoring. Now she ate standing up, over the sink, whatever fit in one hand.

The cable went out during the third inning of what should have been a distraction—a baseball game she wasn't even watching, just needed the noise of. The sudden silence felt louder than the announcers had been. Margot found herself staring at the black screen, her reflection warped across the glass, looking older than thirty-five should feel.

The technician arrived forty-five minutes late. His name tag read MARCUS and he had the kind of face that had seen every version of a Tuesday night there was.

"You got a splitter issue," he said, not looking up from the connections behind her TV. "Happens in this building. The wiring's older than most of the tenants."

Margot watched his hands move with practiced efficiency. "My husband used to do this kind of thing. The technical stuff. I don't know what I'm doing."

Marcus paused, a coaxial cable in each hand. "You learn," he said quietly. "Or you call someone like me. Either way works."

In the kitchen, the spinach sat limp and wilting, like something that had given up on becoming dinner.

"You watching the game?" Marcus asked, gesturing toward the screen where the cable menu now glowed.

"No. Just needed noise."

He nodded like this made complete sense. "My dad loved baseball. Used to take me to Fenway when I was a kid. Haven't watched since he passed. Five years this May."

The room felt suddenly smaller, filled with things people didn't say aloud.

"Three weeks for me," Margot heard herself say. "Leonard. He died three weeks ago tomorrow."

Marcus finished connecting the cables, tested the signal. The baseball game roared back to life—crowd noise, the crack of a bat, announcers discussing something that would matter to no one in a year. Neither of them moved to turn it down.

"The spinach," she said suddenly. "I was making dinner. Do you want—would you like to stay? I have too much."

Marcus looked at his watch, then at her, then at the television where a player rounded second base. "I'm not supposed to. Company policy."

"Right. Of course."

But he didn't leave immediately. He stood in her living room, both of them watching the game, neither really seeing it. The spinach continued its slow surrender on the cutting board. Outside, the city hummed along, indifferent to all the ways people learned to be alone together.

"You know what," Marcus said finally. "I've got another hour on my shift. And I haven't had a homecooked meal since my mother died."