He crossed his arms, resting his head against the windowpane.
Somewhere near Toledo he opened up, pins pricking his wrists as if someone carried a grudge against him.
He worked with his hands, carrying swaths of leather sewn together into a glove.
Catch a ball. Throw a ball.
It’s the stuff of children, really.
The woman still lived in Florida, someone he met during the spring training invite two years prior.
But she earned invitations, herself.
He hadn’t stayed past March, and he hadn’t moved beyond it.
So he still lived on a bus most of time, and he spent his mornings looking through a windowpane.
He watched people carrying laptops to work.
Work they could do anywhere.
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