Personal Narrative-No Room

Michelle and David are packing their stuff, preparing themselves to leave the office.
“Thank God, it’s finally over,” she says picking up her purse on the back of her chair. “It’s been a long week.” David nods putting on his coat and adds they’ve well deserved a drink tonight. They start talking about this new place that just opened, then look around the room and realize the three of us are the last left.
“Do you want to go with us, Joy?”
I stop typing and decline the offer. I show them my monitor, telling I have to finish last-minute corrections that could take some time. David grabs something on his desk and Michelle lowers her eyes on her watch.
“Are you sure? It’s already late. Will you be OK?”
“Don’t worry, the doorman will end his

I let this behind me then, and cross the grass to reach the Dooley Baseball Club on Ipswich Street two blocks away.
Earl Dooley, the owner, is already there, swiping the back alley of the grey warehouse. He greets me and pushes the back door, inviting me to come in. As we follow a long corridor, we chat a little, about Boston and the last game. We walk in a dark room where he switches the lights on. White neon bulbs pop one after the other, enlightening the nine empty batting cages of the club. Earl stops in front of the cage number 4 and hands me a helmet and a bat, telling he has fed the machine with some 150 balls.
I take place on the home plate and I stare the end of the cage, turning my wrists on the grip before pressing the red button console ON. Against the opposite wall the machine groans and starts pitching the balls. Earl observes me trying to bat the first ones, advises to correct my swing and ends by walking away.
The thuds of the aluminum bat echo in the warehouse. The impacts of the balls on the wire fence beat the rhythm. Every 10 seconds a new one is thrown at

I stare at it for a minute, wondering why I haven’t simply got rid of it.
I close the medicine chest then, avoid my reflection in the mirror and open the shower’s faucet.
Vapor starts rising around me.
The coffee Ben brought spreads its smell of in the whole room. I grab a cup and take a sip observing him nodding off on the couch. I stretch to make disappear an ache in my shoulder and pause when my eyes fall on one of the picture frames in the bookshelves.
The photograph has been shot about four summers ago now. It’s a little blurred and shows a Cape Cod beach with surfers carrying their boards in the background. In the front, Ben and I are laughing, trying to hold on a blanket just about to be taken away by the wind. The blue cloudless sky contrasts with our bright clothes. Seagulls are slowly gliding above us. Between us, Alex is hidden by a glare on the frame’s glass, his arm around my waist.
This picture is the last one of the three of us.
“It was a great day,” Ben says behind me.
I turn my head toward the sofa where he has opened an eye.
The silence sets in the room. He straightens up,