The Watering Hole

The dead don't always stay buried. Sometimes they walk among us, wearing business casual, ordering padel at the sports bar like everything's fine.

Mark hadn't been himself since the layoffs—six months of breathing, moving, functioning, but somehow hollowed out. A zombie in everything but name. He'd show up at his desk, answer emails, attend meetings where baseball metaphors got thrown around like curveballs and home runs, all while feeling something fundamental had decayed inside him.

Then Elena messaged him. *Drinks at The Watering Hole?*

Elena, who'd been his work friend when work still meant something. Elena, who'd escaped the zombie department two years ago for a startup that actually paid people what they were worth.

The bar was darker than he remembered. Water condensation slicked the tables, and the air smelled of lemon slices and desperation. Elena was already there, glowing in a way that made his chest ache.

"You look like shit," she said, but she was smiling, pulling him into a hug that felt too real, too warm, too everything.

"Rough month." He shrugged, ordering whiskey instead of beer. "We're pivoting. Again. Management's talking about zombie projects—stuff we should've killed months ago but keep feeding."

Elena laughed, but her eyes softened. "You mean they're keeping the dead alive while the living starve. Classic corporate necromancy."

"Something like that." He swirled his glass. "I keep thinking about that padel court we built behind the office. Remember? Team building, they called it. I haven't picked up a racket since the day they told us about the restructuring."

She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his. "You're not dead, Mark. You're just dehydrated."

"What?"

"Water." She smiled. "You forgot to drink it. Forgot to feed yourself something that isn't just getting through another day." She paused. "I heard about that baseball league you joined last spring. You stopped going."

He looked away, embarrassed. "Yeah."

"Start again. Show up Saturday. Bring your glove. I'll be there." She squeezed his hand. "The dead don't play sports, Mark. That's how you know you're still alive."

Something cracked in his chest. A thaw. For the first time in months, he thought he might actually show up.