He sits in a recliner watching TV. Lights are off. A cat circles his bare legs; rubbing against them, purring. The old man opens a beer and cuts his knuckle on the metal tab. He sucks blood off his finger, presses it against his white tee-shirt, and continues watching baseball in silence.

She’s cleaning up in the kitchen. Putting leftovers away in Tupperware bowls. Sealing lids. Wiping off grease on the stove and counter. She hums a song and taps her foot. Patsy Cline sings in her head. The words and music are sad. Crazy for feeling so lonely, the wife sings softly. He yells at the third baseman’s error. Runners round the bases. She folds a towel.

Could you bring me another Old Style? He asks her. She brings him the cold can and pulls the tab. Careful, he says. Always cut my finger on that damn thing, he tells her. She nods and hands him the slippery beer.

This game is almost over. He says. Top of the ninth.

OK. I’m going to bed. She kisses him on the forehead and walks down the hall.

And, like every night, the old man falls asleep in his La-Z-Boy with the cat in his lap.

Cubs win….Cubs win….